Chapter 27
Zoe
The studio is a graveyard. Indigo stains the concrete like a permanent bruise, and ruined emerald silk hangs on the half-form like a shroud.
In the middle of the room, fists clenched at my sides, breath becomes the only focus.
In through the nose, out through the mouth.
A technique for centering, for finding control.
Right now, it feels like trying to suck air through a straw.
This gets fixed.
Stiff movements carry me to the worktable. The seam ripper waits there. Small. Sharp. Perfect for precise destruction. From there, it's back to the dress, hand steady as the pointed end slides under the first stitch. This is dismantling. One thread at a time.
Snip, snip, snip—the sharp, satisfying sound of thread giving way fills the room. The damaged hem goes first. Then everything else. That princess seam that curves over the hip. Snip. The French seam down the back. Snip. The delicate gathering at the shoulder. Snip.
Cold, methodical fury takes over. The dress has become more than fabric.
It's a symbol. Something built with my own two hands—the only piece of this world that was ever entirely mine.
Gio contaminated it. He removed the obstacle, painted a target on my back, then handed me a get-out-of-jail-free card signed with his name.
Proof, in bold strokes, that Jessica was right all along: a girl who needs a man to fight her battles.
The last pin comes free. Emerald silk slithers to the floor in a heap of expensive ruin. Standing over it, chest heaving, the seam ripper stays clenched in my hand like a weapon.
Survival tastes hollow. Victory feels empty.
A soft click from the studio door makes me flinch. Turning isn't necessary. Recognition comes from the light, hesitant footsteps alone. Only one person moves through a room like she's afraid of disturbing the air.
"I texted," Genny says quietly. "You didn't answer."
"Busy," I reply, voice flat.
Her steps stop behind me. Silence stretches. Attention lingers on the pile of silk at my feet.
"Jessica's gone," she says.
"I know."
"Maya told me what happened. What you said to her." A pause. "And what Gio did after."
Finally, I turn. Genny stands there with two cups of coffee from the cart downstairs. Understanding fills her dark eyes—unnerving in its precision. There's no pity in it. Just recognition. As if she's seen this scene before, only with different players.
"He's a bastard," I say, the words sharp enough to draw blood.
"He is," Genny agrees, offering one of the cups. I leave it where it is. "He's also a product of his environment. A very expensive, very toxic one."
A scoff escapes as I turn back toward the ruined dress. "Don't make excuses for him."
"That's an explanation," she says firmly. "You come from a world where things are built by hand. Where places are earned. You believe in merit. In fairness." One step closer. "We don't live in that world, Zoe. Not really. Not the one he and I come from."
Her words pull my focus back to her. Really back to her. The understated sweater. The calm, unshakeable presence. She belongs to their world.
"In ours," Genny continues, voice low, "nothing is earned. It's given. Problems get erased. Money makes inconvenient things disappear. People. Mistakes. Scandals." A small shrug. "All of it becomes a line item on a balance sheet."
A vague gesture toward the arena door follows.
"He's been taught his entire life that his only value is being a solution.
A clean-up crew for the family messes. When he sees you in distress, every instinct screams fix it.
Gio has the software for support her while she handles it. That update was never installed."
The anger in my chest shifts. Edges dull. What was once a blade settles into a heavy ache.
"So what?" My voice is quieter now. "That makes being managed acceptable?"
"It makes it understandable," Genny says, shaking her head.
"There's a difference between malice and conditioning.
He didn't do this to hurt you. In his fucked-up, black-hearted way, he truly believed he was helping.
Protecting you the only way he knows how.
" She sets the cups on the worktable, ceramic clinking softly.
"A shield was placed in front of you—one you didn't ask for.
The real mistake was assuming you needed it. "
The seam ripper draws my gaze. Then the pile of green silk on the floor. What I did was surgical removal of his help. Genny's right. Just a clumsy, misguided bandage.
"Men like Gio and Rylan," she says quietly, "are born into a cage. They spend their lives learning to be the warden or rattling the bars. Gio rattles. He's done it so long he doesn't know how to ask for help picking the lock."
The seam ripper gets set down on the table. My hand shakes as it leaves it there.
"He still shouldn't have done it," I say. The fight has drained from the words.
"No," Genny agrees. "He shouldn't have." She lifts one of the cups and offers it again. This time, I take it. Warmth seeps into cold fingers. "So now there's a choice. Keep dismantling the beautiful things you build. Or teach him how to build something with you."
My gaze drops to the silk on the floor. Then it lifts to Genny. The answer isn't clear yet. But for the first time since walking away from Gio in that hallway, choice exists at all.