47. Paris.
The jet hums steadily beneath my feet, smooth and controlled as it cuts through the sky.
I've spent my whole life loving control.
Right now, I hate that I don't have it.
Clouds stretch endlessly outside the window. Somewhere beyond them is Paris. Somewhere beneath them is her.
One week ago, Dominic confirmed it.
Her family is hosting their annual couture gala.
The kind of event that makes headlines before it even happens. Billionaires in silk. Power wrapped in elegance. Her parents don't just design fashion- they are fashion. Their name carries weight in every room it enters.
And she's there.
Back home.
With them.
My Swan, surrounded by chandeliers and cameras and people who think they know her.
She belongs in light, on stage, floating like the beautiful graceful ballerina she is
I lean back in the leather seat, but there's no comfort in it. My body is restless, like it knows I'm getting closer to something I almost lost forever
"She's been in Paris for two weeks" Dominic says quietly, reviewing information on his tablet. "Event's tomorrow night. Damon's on the guest list."
So she flew back to Paris right after what happened?
If he had dirt on her — something vile enough to threaten her family's empire — she would have done exactly what she did.
Apparently, her family and Hunt go way back. They are business partners.
She would've burned us to the ground herself before letting him touch them.
And that realization wrecks me more than her words ever did.
She didn't leave because she stopped loving me. She left because she loved them too much.
Her family. Her name.
I close my eyes and I see her the way she used to look at me after my fights — blue eyes scanning my bruises like they were personal insults. Her fingers gentle as they traced the damage. Her lips pressing soft apologies to my skin, like she could kiss the violence out of me.
And I let her walk away thinking I believed she was capable of faking us.
If Damon threatened her family, she would've thought she had no choice. She would've decided that breaking my heart was safer than letting me step into a war she didn't think I could win cleanly.
She underestimated how much I love her.
I look out the window as Paris begins to appear through the thinning clouds. Elegant rooftops. The Seine winding like a quiet promise. The city of romance.
Fitting.
Because I didn't cross an ocean for pride.
I crossed it for her.
"She'll be there tomorrow," Dominic says. "Front row since it's her family's event after all"
I imagine her in a gown designed by her mother. Graceful. Untouchable. Smiling for cameras.
My jaw tightens.
She shouldn't have to carry anything alone.
Not when she has me.
"I would've taken the hit," I say quietly. "Whatever he has. Whatever he threatened. I would've handled it."
Dominic looks up. "She was protecting you."
My swan thought that her past would hurt me.
"I know."
That's what hurts.
She thought she had to protect me from myself.
From what I would do if I knew.
And maybe she was right.
Because if Damon put fear in her eyes—
If he made her believe destroying us was the only way to keep her family safe—
There isn't a corner of this world I wouldn't turn upside down for her.
Not for revenge.
For her peace.
For her smile.
For the way she used to curl into my side like she belonged there.
Hold on, Swan. You protected everyone, now let me protect you.
──────????°? ? ?°?? ??──────
The gala is drenched in gold.
Crystal chandeliers scatter light like falling stars across marble floors. Laughter rises in soft, practiced notes. Cameras flash. Glasses clink. Every movement in the room feels rehearsed
Dominic's connections worked which is how I walked in without a ripple.
And now I stand in the middle of old money and polished power, feeling like a blade slipped quietly between velvet curtains.
Men in tailored tuxedos exchange measured smiles. Their hair is combed back neatly, shoes polished to mirrors. Women glide past in gowns that whisper as they move. Diamonds glint at throats and wrists.
Legacy.
Status.
Control.
And in the middle of it- me.
I'm in a gray suit. Precise cut. Dark tie knotted tight at my throat. No flash. No unnecessary detail.
I don't need to sparkle.
I just need to be here.
A waiter passes. I take a glass from his tray without breaking stride. The stem is cool between my fingers. I lift it, but the champagne barely registers.
My eyes scan the room.
Left. Balcony. Staircase. Private wing.
Nothing.
I adjust the earpiece. "Talk to me" I murmur.
Dominic's voice comes low and steady. "Main floor clear. East wing restricted — heavier security. No visual on Damon yet."
No visual.
My jaw tightens.
"And her?"
A pause.
"Not on the floor."
The absence settles heavy in my chest.
This is her family's empire on display. Their annual couture gala — the kind that decides trends before the rest of the world even knows what it wants. Her parents built this room with their name.
She should be here.
Instead, I stand alone among strangers who know her face but not her heart.
They see elegance. They see poise.
I see the girl who presses her forehead to mine when the world overwhelms her.
The string quartet near the staircase swells into something soft and dramatic. Conversations hush subtly.
A shift.
"Hold." Dominic says quietly in my ear. "She's entering from the upper staircase."
Everything inside me goes still.
I turn and there she is
At the top of the grand staircase, framed in light.
Silver silk drapes over her like liquid moonlight, fitted and flawless. Diamonds rest against her collarbone, catching every flash of the cameras below. Her hair falls in soft waves over one shoulder.
She looks untouchable.
Royal.
Like she belongs carved into marble and memory.
But I know her.
Even from across a ballroom filled with people, I know her.
There's tension in the line of her shoulders. A careful inhale before she moves.
She begins her descent.
The room parts for her without realizing it's doing so.
Cameras lift. Conversations soften. Her parents watch from near the runway platform, pride evident
And she smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes.
My grip tightens around the champagne glass until it presses into my palm.
"She doesn't know you're here." Dominic says.
Yet.
Because I know my Swan can find me in a second if we're in the same room.
And for a moment, I don't move.
Because if I cross that floor, everything changes.
If I go to her before I find Damon, I risk dragging her into something public.
If I find Damon first end it before it ever touches her again.
My gaze shifts briefly toward the shadowed east wing — velvet curtains, guarded entry, quiet power hidden behind discretion.
That's where men like Damon operate.
Not under chandeliers.
In corners.
Trading fear like currency.
"Keep tracking him," I murmur as my eyes return to her. "If he's in this room..." My voice lowers, steady as steel "then tonight is the last night he thinks he controls her."
She reaches the final step.
Like something in the air shifted.
And the her eyes lift.
They sweep the crowd lazily at first and her eyes find mine.
For one suspended second, the world dissolves — the chandeliers, the orchestra, the low hum of wealth and power. There is only her. Silver silk clinging to her like moonlight, diamonds catching in her hair, her lips parted as if my name almost escaped.
She wasn't expecting me.
And God, the way her composure fractures for that single heartbeat makes my chest ache.
I didn't come here to make a scene.
I came because two weeks without her felt like suffocating in slow motion. Because every night without her hands on my bruises felt wrong. Because loving her isn't optional — it's bone-deep, carved into me.
Then he steps into her light.
Damon.
He doesn't rush. He doesn't hesitate. He moves like he belongs beside her, like proximity to her is his right. His hand settles at the small of her back, fingers spreading just enough to claim space that isn't his.
And something violent wakes up inside me.
My jaw locks so tight it hurts. The glass in my hand shakes not from fear, but from the sheer effort it takes not to cross that ballroom and break him where he stands. I imagine dragging him off that polished floor. I imagine blood on marble.
I want to kill that bastard right there and then.
But then I see her shoulders.
They stiffen.
It's subtle. Almost invisible. But I know her. I know every breath she takes when she's uncomfortable. I know the difference between her real smile and the one she wears right now.
If I explode now, if I let rage guide me, I make her night worse. I turn her family's empire into a battlefield. I give him chaos to hide behind and headlines to twist.
No.
He doesn't get that mercy.
I loosen my grip on the glass slowly, deliberately. I force my breathing to steady. Inhale. Exhale. Control.
I didn't fly to Paris to react.
I flew here to end him.
For the fear he planted in her.
For making my Swan believe she had to face this alone.
But I won't do it recklessly.
I will do it alone, I will dismantle him quietly. Strip him of every shield he hides behind. I will make him feel what he made her feel — cornered, exposed, afraid.
Not here.
Not under chandeliers.
In the dark.
Where men like him finally understand what it means to be hunted.
And as he leans closer to her, whispering something in her ear, I don't move.
Because the most dangerous thing in this room isn't my anger.
It's my patience.
again, this ending isn't really plot-thickened, so not much will be revealed here!