25. The Decision
The Decision
Monika
The days blur together after Ashlynn dies.
I don't eat. I don't sleep. I don't leave my room—the new room they gave me, because the old one is a crime scene, because the bloodstains won't come out of the sheets, because the ghost of the woman who raised Nathan Mire still lingers in every corner.
They cleaned it up. The men in black who come when called, who dispose of bodies and scrub away evidence and pretend that nothing happened. They took Ashlynn's body. They washed the sheets. They painted over the stains on the wall.
But they couldn't wash away the memory. They couldn't paint over the sound of her last breath. They couldn't erase the feeling of Nathan inside me, taking what he wanted while I screamed and bled and begged.
I've been in this room for days. Weeks. Time doesn't mean anything anymore.
The servants bring food. I don't touch it. They bring water. I drink enough to survive. They bring messages—from Aleksander, from Gabriel, from Nathan himself—and I don't read them.
I just sit. I stare at the wall. I think about Ashlynn.
She was the first person in this house who told me the truth. Predators don't get fixed, she said. They don't get better. They just get worse.
She was right. She was right, and I didn't listen, and now she's dead.
I think about Tasha. About the girl I saved. About the children I didn't save—the ones who are still in cages, still being sold, still suffering while I sit here in my gilded room and pretend I'm not complicit.
I think about Nathan. About the way he looked at me when he was inside me. About the way he said I love you like it was a curse and a prayer and the only thing he had left.
I think about what I'm going to do.
Aleksander comes to see me.
He doesn't knock. He just walks in—the way he always does, the way all the Mire men do—and he stands in the doorway, looking at me with those grey eyes that have seen too much.
"You need to eat," he says.
"I'm not hungry."
"You need to sleep."
"I can't."
He walks toward me. He sits on the edge of the bed—the new bed, in the new room, with the new sheets that don't smell like blood. He reaches for my hand. I let him take it.
"Monika," he says. "I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"For all of it. For Nathan. For Ashlynn. For bringing you into this house and making you part of this family."
I look at him. His face is haggard, the lines deeper than I remember, the silver at his temples more pronounced. He looks old. He looks tired. He looks like a man who's been carrying a weight for too long.
"I'm not sorry," I say.
He blinks. "What?"
"I'm not sorry you brought me here. I'm not sorry I met you. I'm not sorry I stayed."
"Monika—"
"Because if I hadn't stayed, I never would have found Tasha. I never would have saved her. I never would have known what I'm capable of."
He stares at me. His grey eyes are searching, trying to understand.
"What are you capable of?"
I pull my hand from his. I stand. I walk to the window—the window that faces the garden, the greenhouse, the world outside this gilded cage.
"I'm capable of stopping him," I say. "I'm capable of saving the children. I'm capable of destroying this empire."
"Monika, you can't—"
"I can." I turn to face him. "I've been documenting everything. Every shipment. Every contact. Every ledger. I have proof of everything Nathan has done—and everything you've done too."
His face goes pale. "You've been building a case against us."
"I've been building a case against the empire. Against the trafficking. Against everything this family stands for."
"You're going to turn us in?"
"No." I shake my head. "The police can't touch you. You own them. You own everyone. But I can stop you from the inside. I can dismantle the trafficking operations. I can save the children. I can do what needs to be done."
"How?"
"I don't know yet." I walk toward him. I stop in front of him, close enough to touch. "But I know I have to try. I know I can't sit here anymore, in this room, in this house, pretending I'm not part of this."
"You're not part of this."
"I am." I touch his face. His skin is warm beneath my fingers. "I've been part of this since the night I pulled that bullet from your side. I've been complicit. I've taken the money, the safety, the love. And I've looked the other way while your son sold children like they were nothing."
"I didn't know—"
"You knew enough." My voice is sharp. "You knew about the cages. You knew about the women. You knew about all of it. You just didn't want to see."
He doesn't deny it. He can't.
"I'm going to stop him," I say. "I'm going to stop all of it. And I need you to help me."
He stares at me for a long moment. Then he nods—slow, reluctant, but a nod nonetheless.
"What do you need me to do?"
I go to Nathan's office that night.
The mansion is quiet. The servants have retreated to their quarters. Aleksander is in his study, making calls, gathering information, doing what he can to help. Gabriel is in the greenhouse, pretending he's not part of this family, pretending he can still be saved.
I walk through the halls with purpose. I know what I'm doing. I know what I have to say.
I push open the door to Nathan's office without knocking.
He's sitting at his desk, a glass of whiskey in his hand, the map of the city spread out in front of him. He looks up when I enter, and I see something in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or relief, or something else entirely.
"Monika." He sets down the glass. He stands. "You're awake."
"I'm awake."
"I've been worried about you."
"I know."
"I've been—"
"I don't care." My voice is flat. "I'm not here to talk about your feelings, Nathan. I'm here to talk about the empire."
He tilts his head. His eyes are dark, unreadable.
"What about it?"
"I can't help you anymore."
He goes still. "What?"
"I can't help you take over. I can't help you expand. I can't help you hurt people." I walk toward him. I stop in front of his desk. "I'm done."
"You're done?" He laughs. It's a terrible sound. "You're done? After everything I've done for you? After everything I've given you?"
"You've given me nothing but pain." My voice is steady. "You've hurt me. You've used me. You've raped me. You've killed people in front of me. You've made me complicit in your crimes."
"I've loved you."
"You don't know what love is." I lean forward, my hands flat on his desk. "Love isn't possession. Love isn't control. Love isn't hurting someone and calling it passion."
"Then what is it?"
"I don't know." I straighten. "But I know it's not this."
He stares at me. The rage is building behind his eyes—I can see it, the way I've seen it a hundred times before. But there's something else there too. Something that might be fear.
"You can't leave me," he says.
"I'm not leaving. I'm staying." I pause. "But I'm not yours anymore."
"You've always been mine."
"No." I shake my head. "I've never been yours. I've been surviving. I've been pretending. I've been doing what I had to do to stay alive."
"And now?"
"Now I'm going to stop you."
He moves fast.
One moment he's behind his desk, the next he's in front of me, his hand wrapped around my throat. I gasp nd he pushes me backward, slamming me against the bookshelf.
"You can't stop me," he growls. "You're nothing. You're no one. You're a farm girl who got lucky."
"I'm the woman who's going to destroy you."
He laughs. It's a terrible sound—hollow and raw and full of something that might be madness.
"You think you can destroy me? You think you can take everything I've built?" He tightens his grip on my throat. "I'll destroy you first."
"Then do it." I look at him. I don't flinch. I don't beg. "Kill me. It won't change anything. Your father knows. Gabriel knows. The evidence is already out there."
"What evidence?"
"The files I've been keeping. The documents I've been collecting. Everything you've done—every shipment, every contact, every murder—it's all documented. And those documents all have an encrypted kill switch on them to be sent to ever major news outlet if I don't check in hourly."
His face goes pale. "You're bluffing."
"Am I?"
He stares at me. I can see the war going on behind his eyes—the part of him that wants to kill me, and the part of him that's afraid.
"You wouldn't," he says. "You love me."
"I don't love you." The words come out before I can stop them. "I've never loved you. I lied. I've been surviving."
"Then why did you stay?"
"Because I had nowhere else to go. Because I was trapped. Because I was afraid. Because your father and your brother treats me like I am a person."
"Afraid of what?"
"Afraid of you." I hold his gaze. "Afraid of what you'd do to me. Afraid of what you'd do to the people I care about."
"I would never hurt you."
"You killed Ashlynn." My voice is shaking. "You killed her in front of me. You raped me while her blood was under me, warm, oozing out of her. You have your hand around my neck and are contemplating killing me right now."
He doesn't deny it. He can't.
"I'm not afraid of you anymore," I say. "I'm not afraid of anything. Because I've already lost everything that mattered."
He stares at me. His hand is still around my throat. His body is still pressed against mine.
"You're lying," he says. "You're trying to manipulate me."
"No." I shake my head. "I'm telling you the truth. For the first time since I met you, I'm telling you exactly what I think."
"And what's that?"
"That you're a monster. That you've always been a monster. That you'll never be anything other than a monster."
He kisses me.
It's not a soft kiss. It's not a gentle kiss. It's the kiss of a man who's trying to prove something—who's trying to prove that he still owns me, that he still controls me, that I'm still his.
I don't kiss him back.
He pulls back. His eyes are dark, wild, desperate.
"You're mine," he says. "You've always been mine."
"No."
"You're mine!" He slams his fist against the bookshelf beside my head. I don't flinch. "I won't let you go. I can't let you go."
"You don't have a choice."
"I'll kill you first."
"Then kill me." I hold his gaze. "Kill me and prove that you're the monster I know you are."
He stares at me. His chest is heaving. His hands are shaking.
"Don't," he says. His voice cracks. "Don't make me do this."
"I'm not making you do anything."
"If you leave—if you go to my father—if you destroy everything—"
"You'll have nothing left." I finish his sentence. "You'll have nothing left, and you'll have no one to blame but yourself."
He kisses me again.
This time it's different. This time it's desperate—hungry—the kiss of a man who's trying to hold onto something that's already slipping away.
I don't fight him. I don't push him away. I just let him kiss me. I let him pretend.
Because I know what comes next.
He throws me onto the floor.
The carpet is thick beneath my back—expensive, the kind of thing that costs more than most people's rent. He's on top of me before I can move, his weight pinning me down, his hands tearing at my clothes.
"You're mine," he says. "You're mine, and I'm going to prove it."
I don't answer. I just look at him—at the madness in his eyes, at the desperation in his face—and I feel something shift in my chest.
Not fear. Not anger. Something else.
Pity.
He's a monster. He's done terrible things. But he's also broken—a boy who was never loved, who never learned how to love, who's spent his whole life trying to fill a void that can't be filled.
I could hate him. I should hate him.
But I don't.
I just feel sorry for him.
He fucks me like he's trying to prove something. Rough, hard, demanding. His hands are everywhere—my throat, my breasts, my hips. His mouth is on my neck, my collarbone, my lips.
"You're mine," he keeps saying. "You're mine. You're mine. You're mine."
I don't fight him. I don't struggle. I don't scream.
I just let him take what he wants. Because I know it doesn't matter.
He can fuck me. He can hurt me. He can do whatever he wants.
But he can't own me.
He can never own me.
When it's over, I lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling.
He's beside me, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his body slick with sweat. He reaches for me—reaches for my hand—and I let him take it.
"You're going to stay," he says. "You're going to stay with me."
"No."
"You have to. I won't let you leave."
"You can't stop me."
He's quiet for a long moment. Then, "I'll kill my father. I'll kill Gabriel. I'll kill everyone you care about."
"And then what?" I turn to look at him. "You'll have nothing. You'll be alone. You'll have won."
"I'll have you."
"You'll have my body. You'll have my fear. But you'll never have me again."
He stares at me. His eyes are wet. He's crying—I realize—silent tears sliding down his cheeks.
"I don't know how to let you go," he whispers. "I don't know how to be without you."
"I know." I touch his face. I wipe away his tears. "But you have to. We both do."
"I can't."
"You can." I lean in. I kiss his forehead. "You can, Nathan. You just have to choose."
He closes his eyes. His body is shaking.
"I don't know if I can."
"I know." I pull back. I stand. I look down at him—this broken, beautiful monster—and I feel something I never thought I would feel for him.
Compassion.
"I'm going to save you," I say. "I don't know how. But I'm going to save you. Even if you fight me every step of the way."
He doesn't respond. He just lies there, on the floor, and cries.
I walk out of the room.
I walk through the mansion.
The halls are dark. The portraits watch me pass. The ghosts of everyone who's ever lived here whisper in the shadows.
I stop in front of Elena's portrait.
She looks down at me with those dark eyes—the same eyes I see in the mirror every morning. The same eyes that died twenty years ago.
"I'm going to fix this," I tell her. "I'm going to save him. I'm going to save all of them."