Chapter 25
The Message in the Dark
Asher
I can’t sleep .
It’s nearly three in the morning, and Manhattan has slipped into that strange, gilded quiet it only reaches in the dead hours—when the city exhales but never quite rests. Streetlights bleed gold through the windows. Somewhere far below, a lone siren wails and fades.
I’ve paced the length of the penthouse twice. Refilled my bourbon without tasting it. My skin still won’t settle.
So I do what I’ve done every night since Violet became a liability I refuse to relinquish.
I pull up the feeds.
Three screens bloom to life. Three angles inside her apartment—kitchen, living room, and front entry.
This isn’t about Rinaldi. It isn’t about the press conference that detonated across every screen earlier today, where her name was left unsaid but hovering just beneath the headlines like a threat. This isn’t even about control.
It’s about seeing her breathe.
I should turn it off. I know that. I tell myself I’m done watching, that she isn’t mine yet, and this is already too much.
My thumb hits rewind instead.
Hours blur past. Violet folding laundry with mechanical precision.
Boiling water for tea she barely touches.
Standing too long at the sink, palms braced on porcelain like it’s the only thing holding her upright.
She checks her phone too often. Flinches when it lights up. Sets it down like it might bite.
Then the kitchen feed sharpens my focus.
Her phone is pressed to her ear. She’s pacing now, barefoot, the floor creaking beneath her steps. Her shoulders draw tight, breath shallow.
“I saw,” she says quietly.
A pause. She nods, once. Slow. Controlled.
“I know. But I don’t have anywhere to go.”
Her gaze flicks toward the door. Then the window. Calculation layered over fear.
“Cami, I can’t take your—” She cuts herself off, frustration rolling through her body like a tremor. Her jaw tightens. She exhales through her nose. “I hate this.”
The call ends. She doesn’t move right away. Just stands there, fingers curling into the counter like she might crack it if she grips hard enough.
I freeze the frame.
My pulse kicks harder, heavier.
She’s thinking about leaving.
I rub a hand over my face, tension coiled so tight it hurts. I’ve already decided what comes next—once Ella is out, Violet stops pretending she can outrun this. But if she bolts before then? Before I close the distance?
No.
That can’t happen.
The feed jumps forward again. She’s asleep now, curled on the couch, and a blanket tangled around her legs. The television casts flickering light across her face. One loose strand of hair has fallen free, brushing her cheek.
She looks smaller like this. Breakable in a way that has nothing to do with weakness.
I don’t check the door cam. I don’t check the stairwell. I don’t check the street.
I watch her chest rise and fall instead.
Motion snaps across the screen.
Front door. 2:47 a.m.
My blood goes cold.
A figure slips inside—quiet, practiced, and without hesitation. Not Violet.
I zoom in, breath shallow.
Curves. Feminine. Black hoodie pulled low. Movements smooth enough to suggest familiarity.
I know her before my mind will accept it.
The woman is wearing Violet’s face.
The imposter.
She crosses the room slowly, stopping just feet from the couch. She doesn’t rush. Doesn’t touch.
She watches.
Minutes pass. Violet stirs once, a soft shift of limbs, but doesn’t wake. The imposter tilts her head, studying her like a mirror deciding which reflection it prefers.
My grip tightens on the desk until the wood creaks.
She kneels.
Too close.
Then she reaches into her jacket.
A small bottle. A brush.
My heart stutters.
She paints on the wall above the couch, strokes deliberate, and almost reverent. When she finishes, she steps back, admiring her work.
Then she looks directly into the camera.
Smiles.
Not triumph. Not fear.
An invitation.
She leaves as quietly as she came.
I don’t breathe.
Red letters bleed across the wall behind Violet.
You killed my family. I will kill yours.
Something inside me fractures.
“No,” I growl, already moving. “No. No—”
I’m on my feet, phone in hand, while rage and something far older colliding in my chest. I wasn’t watching the street. I wasn’t watching the stairwell. I was watching her sleep.
Because I needed to know she was safe.
Because I can’t stop watching her.
“Who was posted outside Violet’s building tonight?” My voice cuts sharp through the comms.
Static. Then, hesitant. “Carter, sir.”
“Get him on the line.”
A pause. Too long.
“We can’t reach him.”
Of course you can’t.
If he’s alive, he’s compromised. If he’s dead, someone wanted me blind.
Either way, this ends now.
I grit my teeth so hard my jaw pops. “If he’s breathing, I want answers. If he’s not, I want names. No more mistakes. Track down who breached that building—facial match, gait analysis, anything.”
I don’t wait for confirmation.
My sister’s voice cuts through the panic in my head—an echo I can’t shake. “I think someone’s following me.” I shake it off. This isn’t then. I won’t be too late this time.
I hit speed dial.
“Dorian,” I snap. “Car. Now.”
No more shadows. No more watching.
I’m already shoving weapons into the bag. Loading the Glock. Sliding a spare magazine into my jacket. My phone buzzes—Dorian confirming ETA.
I stride for the elevator.
She’s not running. Not now. Not with a target on her back and a psychopath wearing her face.
And if Violet goes dark—if something happens to her or Ella—I won’t survive that again. This time, I’ll get there in time.
Even if I have to burn the whole city to the ground to do it.