Chapter Eight Dylan
My penthouse has never felt small—until there’s someone in it I can’t stop noticing.
Sunny is barefoot in my kitchen, staring at a mug of tea she hasn’t drunk. She keeps drifting around the apartment like a ghost, folding blankets, straightening books that didn’t need straightening, placing little things where warmth should go.
A plant. A cardigan draped over a chair. Her hair tie on the counter.
Soft things in a place built from steel.
I should hate it. I don’t.
I stand in the doorway, buttoning my shirt for a meeting I already postponed twice. I should care about numbers and contracts and Marcus Blake circling my company like a shark.
But all I can see is how small she looks in this massive room. How tense her shoulders are. How she keeps checking the window like she expects danger to scale forty-nine floors and knock.
“You don’t have to fill the silence,” I tell her.
She startles. “I wasn’t.”
“You were apologizing with your body.” I gesture to the couch she keeps rearranging. “Like you think taking up space is a crime.”
Her cheeks go pink. “Sorry.”
I don’t let her finish the word.
“Don’t,” I snap.
She flinches—tiny, but enough to make my jaw clench.
I lower my voice. “I don’t want apologies. I want you safe.”
She looks away. “Safety still feels like a cage.”
I want to tell her cages have keys. That I’m holding them. That she could stay—if she asked.
Instead, I say, “Breakfast.”
Her brows lift. “You’re…making breakfast?”
“No.” I flick my wrist toward the intercom. “I’m having breakfast made. My contribution is not setting the place on fire.”
She laughs under her breath. The sound hits somewhere in my chest like I wasn’t braced for impact.
I leave her long enough to shower and change. Fifteen minutes, maybe. When I return—
The living room is different.
The curtains are open. All of them. Sunlight burns through the glass, spilling across floors that haven’t seen natural light since I moved in.
A vase—my vase, empty for years—has flowers in it. White tulips.
There are candles—unlit—on the coffee table.
The penthouse smells faintly like vanilla.
My pulse stutters.
“What did you do?” I ask.
Sunny freezes mid-placement of a throw pillow. “I—um—just lightened things up. Plants need sun. Candles need space. Rooms need…life.”
Life. In the mausoleum I call home.
“It looks wrong,” I say.
Her face falls.
I hate myself instantly.
I step closer, correcting. “It looks like someone finally lives here.”
She blinks. “Oh.”
Silence. Heavy. Charged.
I move past her before I say anything I can’t take back. I grab my keys, my phone, every shield I know how to carry.
“Connor is picking you up later,” I tell her. “He’ll drive you to the fitting. The ring appointment is after.”
She nods. “Okay.”
She doesn’t ask why I’m not going.
She doesn’t know I can’t watch another man fit a ring on her finger without breaking a bone in my own fist.
I’m halfway out the door when someone knocks.
No—not knocks. Bang-bang-bang.
Sunny goes rigid. Fear flies across her features so fast I barely catch it.
I stalk to the door and look through the security monitor.
Olivia Hart.
Of course.
I open the door enough to block her from stepping over the threshold.
“What,” I say.
Olivia leans in, perfume and poison curling off her. “You didn’t answer my texts.”
“I didn’t want to.”
She glances past me—trying to see inside—trying to see her.
“Is she here?”
“Yes.” I don’t let a breath slip. “Don’t say her name.”
Olivia scoffs. “So it’s true. Manhattan’s most untouchable man falls for a kindergarten teacher who looks like she wandered in from a Hallmark movie.”
My palms itch. “Get to the point.”
Her smile sharpens. “Marcus Blake is pushing for a vote. Board. Investors. If he succeeds, you lose everything.”
“This isn’t news.”
“Oh, but here's the news—” She tilts her head. “He’s using her.” She hums lightly. “The narrative is simple: billionaire spirals, risks empire for na?ve girl.”
My vision tunnels.
“He wants her dragged into it,” Olivia whispers. “He wants her eaten alive by press, by rumor, by every vulture that waits for weakness.”
Sunny, behind me, breathes in—quiet but audible. Listening.
I lower my tone to ice. “If you came here to warn me—done. Leave.”
“Warning?” Olivia smirks. “No. Consider it a eulogy.”
Then she leans in—voice razor-soft:
“She will drown in your world. And you will watch it happen.”
I shut the door in her face.
I turn—and Sunny is standing by the sofa, arms wrapped around herself, eyes wide.
“Is she right?” she asks. “Am I ruining everything?”
My temper fractures—not at her. At the universe that made her ask that.
“No,” I say. Hard. Final. “What ruins things is letting anyone else dictate our story.”
Our. The word is out before I can stop it.
Sunny swallows. “What if I can’t do this?”
My control slips.
I move toward her—slow, deliberate—until she tilts her head back just to keep my gaze.
“You already are.”
She trembles. My hand twitches at my side—wanting to touch. To anchor. To claim.
Instead—I give her distance. Barely.
“If anyone tries to hurt you,” I say, voice low enough it could crack marble, “I will end them.”
She whispers—almost too quiet to hear:
“What about someone who tries to love me?”
My lungs seize.
That is a line I have no armor for.
Before I can answer—before I can choose whether to lie or burn—
My phone buzzes.
A text.
Connor.
Turn on the news. Now.
I grab the remote. The TV wakes to a breaking-news banner.
DYLAN KNIGHT – SECRET FIANCéE EXPOSED
Photos. Rumors. A blurry shot of Sunny entering my penthouse at midnight.
And then—a new lower-third scrolls across the screen:
Trevor Malone speaks out – “She’s mine.”
Sunny gasps—hand flying to her mouth.
My vision goes black-sharp.
Lines have been crossed.
Boundaries obliterated.
War declared.
I pick up the phone.
“Get the jet,” I tell Connor. “We end this.”