Chapter Twenty-Five Emmy
Chapter Twenty-Five
Emmy
The door slams behind me, the sound sharp and final, and fury floods my veins.
He’s infuriatingly cryptic, offering half-truths wrapped in silence, explanations stripped down until they mean almost nothing.
And then, as if that isn’t enough, he decides my life for me.
No work. No leaving. Trapped in his penthouse until he decides the world is safe enough for me to exist in it again.
I don’t slow as I storm into the bathroom. I strip out of my clothes with shaking hands, letting them fall where they land, a careless heap on the marble floor. Every nerve in my body hums with the need to do something, to scream, to throw, to break,
But exhaustion wins.
I step into the shower and crank the water hot. Too hot. Steam blooms instantly, curling around me like a living thing. The sting against my skin grounds me, a small, controlled pain I welcome until my body adjusts.
I scrub at myself harder than necessary, not really paying attention. My thoughts are too loud, spiralling too fast. Anger tangles with confusion, with something far more dangerous, doubt.
When I reach for the shampoo, I freeze.
Only his things line the shelf.
Of course they do.
I sigh and wash my hair anyway, already resigned to the fact that I’ll go to bed smelling like him. Like his space. His presence. The scent wraps around me, unsettling in how easily it seeps in, how it steadies me when it shouldn’t.
Because it does steady me.
It makes me feel safe. Comforted. And that scares me more than his silence ever could.
By the time I shut the water off, my breathing has slowed. The heat has leeched the sharpest edge from my anger, leaving behind something colder and more focused.
Questions.
Why would his father use me to hurt him? What history sits between them, rotten and unresolved? Why is it suddenly dangerous for me to live my life the way I always have?
And finally, why does the thought keep circling back to the manila envelope I almost opened?
The one I didn’t get to see.
I wrap myself in a towel, my reflection hazy through the fogged glass.
Whatever he’s hiding, I know one thing with terrifying certainty:
This isn’t about control alone.
It’s about something coming.
And somehow, I’m standing right in the middle of it.
Once the last of the anger bleeds out of me, I dry off with one of the thick black towels, wrapping it tight around my body like armour. The air is still heavy with steam as I step out of the bathroom, heat following me into the bedroom in slow, curling tendrils.
The room feels… altered.
On the bed, laid out with deliberate care, is a pair of dark pants and a soft T-shirt. Not mine. His. A reminder that even here, even alone, I’m still surrounded by him. My belongings are nowhere in sight.
Of course they aren’t.
I pull the shirt over my head, the fabric falling far past my hips. I don’t bother with the pants, they’d drown me. The shirt smells like him, faint but unmistakable, and I hate how my body reacts before my mind can stop it.
That’s when I hear it.
Voices.
Raised. Male. One of them unmistakably Khai’s. The other, unknown.
My pulse spikes.
I move toward the bedroom door, every instinct sharpening as the sounds carry from the living area. I can’t make out the words yet, just the edge of anger, the tight cadence of an argument being held back from something worse.
The door is closed.
I hesitate only a second before easing it open, careful, silent. The apartment is dim, shadows stretching long across polished floors as I edge closer, each step measured, cautious.
Then his voice breaks through, no restraint this time.
“This doesn’t make sense!”
The roar echoes through the penthouse, raw and unfiltered, followed immediately by the violent crash of something shattering. Glass, or stone, splintering into pieces.
Khai
Jaxon watches me from the kitchen like he’s waiting for me to detonate.
I’m already halfway there.
The moment Emmy disappeared into the bedroom, fury took its place.
I dragged fresh clothes from my closet and laid them out on the bed, something soft, something that would smell like me, because her things wouldn’t arrive for hours and I couldn’t stand the thought of her feeling unanchored in my space.
Then I called Jaxon.
Because I needed the envelope open.
And I needed a witness when it destroyed what little control I had left.
“This doesn’t make sense!” I roar, the words tearing out of my chest as I hurl my glass of whisky at the wall.
It explodes on impact. Glass shards scatter like shrapnel, amber liquid bleeding down the concrete in slow, mocking streaks. The crash echoes through the penthouse, violent and final.
My breathing comes too fast. My head throbs like it’s being split open from the inside.
The envelope lies gutted on the counter behind me.
Inside it, hell. Photos. Messages. Time stamps. Locations.
Everything about the day Liam died.
Every detail I’ve spent years trying to bury has been laid out with surgical precision. But that’s not what’s breaking me.
It’s the pages with my name on them.
My movements. My location. My assignments.
I was on a job that day, one my father sent me on. Clean. Official. Documented.
So why the hell was I being tracked?
“Khai,” Jaxon says carefully, his voice tight with concern. “You need to calm down, man.”
He doesn’t come any closer. He knows better.
I rake a hand through my hair, pacing like a caged animal. “None of this adds up. If this is about Liam, why am I in these files? Why was I being monitored?”
Because you weren’t just a son. You were leverage.
The thought hits like a blade.
My jaw clenches as the truth starts to surface, ugly, unavoidable. My father didn’t just orchestrate events. He controlled the narrative. He always has.
And now Emmy is part of it.
I glance toward the hallway, toward the bedroom door where she’s showering, unaware of how close she is to the blast radius.
Too close.
I straighten, something cold and lethal settling into my chest.
If my father is willing to dig this deep, if he’s willing to use me as collateral, then she isn’t just vulnerable.
She’s a target.
And I don’t care what lines I have to cross anymore.
No one touches what’s mine.
Soft footsteps cut through the tension.
Then she’s there.
She steps into the living room wrapped in nothing but my shirt, the fabric hanging off her like it belongs there, like she belongs here, and the sight of it hits me hard and fast.
Fuck.
“What is going on, Khai?” she asks, her voice unsteady as she tugs the hem of the shirt down, as if willing it to offer more coverage than it ever will.
Jaxon’s attention snaps to her instantly.
I feel it before I see it, the shift in the room, the spark of interest lighting behind his eyes. He straightens, that familiar, infuriating grin spreading across his face as he moves toward her.
“Hey,” he says easily, extending his hand. “I’m Jaxon.” His smile turns sharper, more amused. “And you must be Emmy.”
His other hand runs through his blond hair like he’s on display, like this is a game.
My jaw tightens.
She hesitates only a second before taking his hand, offering him a small, polite smile while tugging the shirt down again, self-conscious but composed. “Hi,” she says softly. “Nice to officially meet you. You visited Khai in the hospital.”
The words are harmless.
The moment is not.
Something dark coils in my chest as I watch them, how close he stands, how easily he looks at her, how unaware she is of what she’s stepped into.
This is exactly why I brought her here. And exactly why I shouldn’t have let anyone else see her like this.
Jaxon’s gaze drops, just for a second, but it’s enough.
It lands on her bare legs, exposed beneath the hem of my shirt, and something inside me fractures cleanly.
I’m at her side before I consciously decide to move, my arm sliding around her, my hand settling firm and possessive at her hip. I pull her into me, a clear message written in the tension of my grip.
Not yours. Never yours.
Jaxon immediately lifts his hands, taking a few deliberate steps back, the smirk already pulling at his mouth.
“I know, I know,” he says easily. “She’s yours.” His eyes linger on her anyway, unapologetic. “Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate beauty, man.”
I pin him with a look that promises consequences.
He gets the message.
Jaxon turns away, retreating toward the kitchen, lifting his glass for a casual sip like he hasn’t just crossed a line.
Next to me, Emmy tries to pull free. Instead, I turn fully toward her, placing myself squarely between her and him. My hands settle at her waist, anchoring her there, not rough, not gentle. Intentional.
Low, controlled, I lean down and murmur near her ear, “If you’re going to be around him, put on the pants I left out for you.”
I straighten slowly.
Her eyes lift to mine, defiance flashing bright and unmistakable. Then she smiles, soft, sweet, and absolutely dangerous.
“They’re too big,” she says calmly. “And besides…”
She leans in just enough for her words to reach only me.
“I prefer going commando.”
The implication hits harder than it should.
My grip tightens a fraction. Not anger, restraint. She knows exactly what she’s doing. The satisfied look that crosses her face confirms it.
I don’t look away from her when I speak.
“Jaxon,” I say sharply. “We’ll be right back. Get back to work.”
The order lands heavy in the room.
I release her waist only long enough to catch her hand, my grip firm as I pull her after me toward the bedroom. She stumbles to keep up, breath hitching, the tension between us stretched tight and trembling.
The door shuts behind us with a sharp click.
I lock it.
When I turn, she’s standing in the middle of the room, eyes wide, chest rising and falling too fast. She looks like she’s bracing for impact, and that nearly stops me.
Nearly.