Chapter Twenty-Four Khai
Chapter Twenty-Four
Khai
I should tell her.
The truth claws at the back of my throat, sharp and poisonous, demanding to be spoken.
Every instinct I have tells me keeping her in the dark is a mistake, but letting her see the full picture would be catastrophic.
Once she knows, there’s no pulling it back.
No dulling the edges. No pretending this is just my paranoia tightening its grip.
She stands in the centre of my penthouse, shoulders squared, chin lifted. Defiant. Unyielding. Her eyes lock onto mine like she’s daring me to lie to her again.
“Why do I need protecting, Khai?”
The question lands harder than it has any right to.
I turn away before she can see the damage it does, the fracture in my control, the fury and fear twisting together in my chest. The city stretches beyond the glass walls, all lights and height and distance. A kingdom of steel and glass I usually trust to remind me that I’m in control.
Tonight, it feels like nothing more than an illusion.
Because he knows. Because he asked about her. Because I didn’t bury her existence deep enough.
The admissions hammer through me, one after another, each more damning than the last. My hands curl into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms as if pain might keep the memories in check.
If I tell her, fear will take root.
It will seep into everything, into the way she looks at me, the way she moves through a room, the way she breathes when she thinks she’s alone. Fear makes people unpredictable. Fear makes them reckless.
Fear makes them run.
And I cannot afford for her to run.
“You’re safer here,” I say instead.
It isn’t a lie. It’s just incomplete.
I hear her sharp exhale behind me, frustration, anger, disbelief. Good. Those emotions are loud, manageable. I know how to contain them. I know how to stand firm against them without breaking.
I turn back to face her, forcing my features into calm, into control. I summon the version of myself the world sees, the man who never hesitates, never wavers, never lets the cracks show.
Not the one standing a breath away from losing his grip entirely.
“You dragged me out of my job,” she says quietly. “You brought me here without telling me why. That’s not safety. That’s confinement.”
The word cuts deeper than anything she’s said tonight.
I take a step toward her on instinct, then stop myself just as quickly. Closing the distance now would only prove her right. I’ve already crossed too many lines. I need to give her space, even if every part of me resists it.
“You think I don’t know that?” I ask, my voice low, tightly controlled. “You think I don’t hear how this sounds when it leaves my mouth?”
Her chin lifts, defiance sparking in her eyes. Unyielding. Brave.
God help me, always brave.
I swallow hard, the weight of the moment pressing down on my chest.
If I tell her everything, she’ll hate me for what I’m about to do next. For the choices I’ve already made. For the ones I haven’t finished making yet.
And if I tell her nothing?
She’ll hate me anyway.
Control or truth. Protection or honesty.
Either way, I lose something.
And the worst part is knowing I’m still standing here, calculating which loss I can live with.
“This isn’t permanent,” I say at last. The words taste thin, fragile. “But for now, you stay here. You don’t go anywhere alone. You don’t tell anyone where you are.”
Her eyes narrow, sharp and unyielding. “You’re still not answering me.”
No. Because if I do, I won’t be able to pretend this is about control anymore.
And the truth?
The truth is I’m terrified that if I loosen my grip even slightly, he’ll reach her first.
“I will,” I promise quietly. “When it’s safe.”
She studies me then, really looks at me, like she’s weighing something far heavier than my words. As if she’s trying to decide whether I’m the threat…
…or the only thing standing between her and it.
I don’t know which possibility frightens me more.
A soft, disbelieving laugh slips from her. “And who decides that?”
She remains where she is, arms crossed, eyes keen and suspicious. Waiting. She’s always been good at that, at holding her ground, even when the ground beneath her is already giving way.
I don’t hesitate.
“I do.”
The certainty in my voice leaves no space for argument. And even as I say it, I know I’ve crossed another line, one I won’t be able to step back over when this is done.
The silence that follows is brittle, stretched too thin. I feel it splinter between us.
I turn away before she can say anything else and pull my phone from my pocket.
One message.
To Jaxon.
Khai:
She stays with me. Pull eyes off the hospital. Redirect everything. No contact unless I say otherwise.
The reply comes almost immediately.
Jaxon:
Done.
I slide the phone away before she can see it, before she can ask who I’m speaking to, before she can notice the way my shoulders ease, just slightly. A fraction of the weight lifts. Not enough. Never enough.
“You’re not going back to work tomorrow,” I say.
Her head snaps up. “Excuse me?”
“I’ve already handled it.” I meet her stare, unwavering. “Personal leave. No questions asked.”
“That was not your decision to make.”
No. But it was mine to enforce.
“I won’t have you out there,” I say, my voice tightening, “not until I’ve shut my father down.”
She steps closer, anger flaring bright and sharp. “You don’t get to rearrange my life without telling me what the hell is going on.”
“I’m protecting you,” I bite out. “I’m keeping you safe.”
Her hands curl into fists at her sides. “By locking me in your penthouse?”
The accusation lands clean. True.
I don’t deny it. I can’t.
“I’m giving you walls,” I say instead. “Security. Distance.”
“And no choice.”
The words hang between us, heavy and undeniable.
I say nothing.
Because this is where the line is thinnest, and I crossed it the moment I decided her safety mattered more than her consent.
I drag a hand down my face and step toward her.
She retreats instantly.
One step from me. One step from her.
I keep moving, slow, deliberate, until her back meets the wall. The sound is quiet but final. I brace my hands against the wall beside her head, close enough that she feels the weight of me there without my touching her.
I bow my head, breathing through the restraint it takes not to close my hands around her.
She’s right. I’m not giving her a choice.
That doesn’t make my reasons any less real.
She looks at me like she’s deciding whether I’m worth fighting… or whether fighting me would only make this worse.
That look cuts deeper than her anger ever could.
“I just need you to be safe,” I say quietly.
The words come out stripped bare, the command gone. My eyes stay locked on hers, trying to say everything I can’t afford to voice, the fear, the urgency, the truth I’m choking back.
She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t look away.
I lean in before I can stop myself.
The kiss is brief. Controlled. Not hunger, desperation. A collision of everything I’m holding back, pressed into a single moment I know I shouldn’t take. It’s slow, careful, as if I’m asking without words.
She bites my lip sharply and shoves me away.
Hard.
She storms past me, fury rolling off her in waves. I reach out on instinct and catch her wrist, pulling her back just enough that she spins and collides with my chest.
“Let. Me. Go. Khai,” she grits out. “I want to shower.”
Anger hums through her, hot and unyielding.
I release her immediately.
She doesn’t look back as she heads for the bedroom. Just before the door slams, she throws the words over her shoulder like a demand.
“I want my clothes and my essentials.”
The door shuts with finality.
Only then do I let myself breathe.
Every choice I’m making, the lies, the boundaries she never agreed to, the control I keep justifying, is built on one unacceptable truth:
If I give her complete freedom right now, I might lose her.
And I’ve already decided that’s a risk I won’t take.
Even if it makes me the villain in her story.