Chapter 22 - Nathan
The billiard room at the Elysian Club smells like leather and old money. I lean against the table, cue stick in hand, waiting for Bjorn to finish his scan of the room. Even in my own club, he's cautious. It's why I trust him.
The serpent emblem is carved subtly into the door frame—a reminder that this room has hosted countless Order business over the decades.
I line up a shot, the crack of balls meeting the only sound for a moment. "Detective Harding visited Eve in her office."
"The trail is cold. The equipment malfunction that caused his initial accident remains unexplained.
His death appears entirely natural—a man whose body simply gave up after months of struggling.
" Bjorn's expression doesn't change. "Detective Harding has nothing.
No evidence. No witnesses. No reason to look further. "
"And the Council?" I ask, sinking the eight ball. The Order doesn't typically sanction removals without approval, but I'd called in enough favors. "Any concerns?"
"Senator Abraham signed off personally. Blackwood abstained, as expected—he never likes to get his hands dirty—but the majority approved the action." Bjorn's tone is matter-of-fact. "The Royston matter is officially closed in the Order's records. No one will ask questions."
I set down my cue. "Good. And his associates?"
"Scattered. Without their leader, they're nothing. Fred Greyhound's network has also completely collapsed. No one wants to touch anything connected to that mess." He pauses. "You've eliminated every threat to her, sir. She's completely secure now."
Completely secure. Completely mine.
"Thank you, Bjorn. That will be all."
He nods and leaves as silently as he entered. I pour myself two fingers of whiskey and move to the window overlooking the city.
Bryce Royston was a loose end. A threat. A man who thought he could touch what belongs to me.
Now he's nothing but ash and a fading news story, his removal sanctioned by the most powerful people in the city. The Order protects its own. And Eve is mine, which means she's theirs to protect now, too.
Whether she knows it yet or not.
I feel no guilt. No remorse. Just a cold, clean satisfaction that another piece of chaos has been removed from Eve's world. She'll never have to fear his harassment again. Never have to see his face or hear his voice.
I made sure of that.
And the Order made sure it would never come back to me.
***
I find her in the library when I return, curled up on the sofa with a book. She looks up as I enter, and the soft smile that crosses her face makes something in my chest tighten.
"Get dressed," I say, moving to stand behind her. My hands settle on her shoulders, and she leans back into my touch. "Something elegant. We're going out."
Her eyes widen slightly. "Out? Where?"
"It's a surprise." I press a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. "Trust me?"
The pause is barely noticeable now. "Yes."
An hour later, she emerges from the bedroom in a deep emerald dress that makes her hair look like living flame. The silk clings to her curves, and I have to resist the urge to strip it off her and take her back to bed.
Later. Tonight is about something else.
"You look stunning," I murmur, offering my arm.
The car takes us across the city to a neighborhood she recognizes. Her brow furrows as we pull up in front of the Castellane Gallery, one of the most exclusive art venues in the city.
"Nathan, this gallery requires appointments months in advance—"
"Not for me," I say simply, helping her from the car.
The curator greets us at the door, professional and warm. "Mr. Hale, Miss Sinclair. Everything is prepared as you requested."
Eve's hand tightens on my arm as we step inside, and I watch her face as she realizes what I've done.
The gallery is empty. Completely empty except for us. And on the walls are paintings by Celeste Morrison, the abstract artist Eve has admired for years. Pieces that aren't even supposed to be on display yet—I had them brought in specially.
"Nathan," she breathes, her voice catching. "How did you—"
"I pay attention," I say quietly, guiding her toward the first painting. "You mentioned her name once, months ago. Said her use of color reminded you of grief transformed into beauty."
She stares at me, green eyes wide and shining. "You remembered that?"
"I remember everything you say."
The curator begins the tour, discussing technique and inspiration, but I barely listen.
I'm too focused on watching Eve's face as she moves from piece to piece.
The way her eyes light up. The way she gestures animatedly when discussing the interplay of shadow and light.
The way she bites her lip when she's deeply moved.
This is the woman I fell in love with. Not the broken creature I created in my obsession, but the brilliant, passionate artist I first saw at Alex's house. The girl who turned grief into beauty.
"This one," she says softly, stopping in front of a canvas dominated by deep reds and golds. "It's called 'Phoenix.' I saw a photograph of it once, but seeing it in person..."
She trails off, and I see tears on her cheeks.
"Do you like it?" I ask.
"It's perfect," she whispers. "This whole night is perfect. I don't... I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything." I wipe the tears from her cheeks with my thumb. "Just enjoy it. This is for you, Eve. Just you."
We spend an hour in the gallery, and she talks more than I've heard her talk in weeks. About color theory and emotional resonance. About how art can capture what words can't. About the courage it takes to create something vulnerable and put it into the world.
I listen to every word, storing them away like precious things.
Because this—her joy, her passion, her unguarded enthusiasm—this is what I wanted to protect. What I wanted to preserve when I destroyed everything else.
***
Dinner is at Maison Bleu, where the chef has prepared a private tasting menu just for us. The dining room overlooks the city, all glittering lights and possibility, and Eve is radiant in the candlelight.
"Thank you," she says as we're served the first course. "For tonight. For understanding what I needed."
"You needed to remember who you are," I say. "Not the CEO. Not the woman fighting to survive. Just Eve. The artist. The creator."
She smiles, and it reaches her eyes. "You see me more clearly than anyone ever has."
If only that were true.
If only she knew the depth of what I've done. Not just the stalking, the manipulation, the calculated destruction of her independence. But the original sin. The accident that took Alex from her.
The guilt rises like bile in my throat, but I push it down. Tonight isn't about my demons. It's about her.
We talk through seven courses, and I draw her out, asking questions about her creative process, her inspirations, her dreams. She tells me about wanting to design a collection inspired by Morrison's work. About how fashion and art can intersect.
"You should do it," I say. "Design whatever you want. I'll handle the business side. You just create."
She reaches across the table and takes my hand. "You really mean that, don't you? You want me to be happy."
"More than anything," I say, and it's the truest thing I've said all night. "Your happiness is everything to me, Eve."
Because it is. Even if that happiness is built on lies.
***
The drive home is quiet. Eve rests her head on my shoulder, her hand in mine, and I feel the weight of her trust like a physical thing.
The city slides past the tinted windows, and I think about how far we've come. From that first night at the club to this moment. From her fear and resistance to this peaceful contentment.
I've won. Completely. Absolutely.
She's mine by choice now, not just by circumstance. She's chosen this life. Chosen me.
But as I look down at her peaceful face, guilt coils cold in my gut.
Because her choice isn't really a choice, is it? Not when it's based on carefully constructed lies. Not when she doesn't know the full truth of what I've done.
She doesn't know that I'm the reason Alex died. That my recklessness sixteen years ago is what set all of this in motion.
She thinks I'm her protector. Her obsessed lover. The man who destroyed her life to remake it in his image.
She doesn't know I'm the monster who destroyed her life the first time. The night I got behind the wheel drunk and killed her brother.
Everything I've done—the stalking, the manipulation, the obsessive protection—it's all been an attempt to atone for that original sin. To keep the promise I made at Alex's grave.
But atonement built on lies isn't really atonement at all.
"Nathan?" Eve murmurs, stirring against my shoulder. "Are you okay? You're tense."
"Fine," I say, stroking her hair. "Just thinking."
"About what?"
About how I'm going to keep you safe from the truth. About how I'll protect this beautiful lie we're living for as long as I can.
"About how perfect tonight was," I say instead. "About how beautiful you are."
She smiles and settles back against me, trusting. Content.
And I hold her tighter, this woman I've claimed through deception and obsession, and pray she never finds out what really set this all in motion.
Because if she does, I'll lose her.
And losing her would destroy me more completely than any business failure, any enemy, any threat.
She is my world now. My everything.
And I will do whatever it takes to keep her exactly where she is—safe, protected, and blissfully unaware of the blood on my hands.
Even if that makes me the worst kind of monster.