Chapter 38
I Was Never His Equal. Just His Pawn.
Violet
I make it to my bedroom on instinct alone, my legs unsteady beneath me, and each step uncertain, like my body hasn’t decided yet whether it’s going to keep holding me upright or finally give in.
The room tilts when I cross the threshold, my vision blurring just enough to make my stomach lurch, and I have to stop, bracing a hand against the wall while I try to pull in a breath that feels thicker than it should be.
The air presses in on me, heavy and resistant, like I’m breathing through something soaked and dense, and no matter how deep I inhale, it doesn’t feel like enough.
My thoughts won’t settle. They don’t line up neatly or move forward in any kind of order.
They collide, circle back, and overlap each other until I can’t tell where one ends and the next begins.
The taste of his kiss still lingers on my mouth, cruel in its persistence, and my body betrays me by remembering the warmth of it before my mind can intervene.
Worse than that, my body remembers him—bare, close, and intimate in a way I don’t allow easily.
Not even six hours ago, he was inside me, and it felt consuming and undeniable and real in a way that makes my chest ache now.
And then reality crashes in, sudden and brutal, knocking the air from my lungs.
He kills people.
The thought lands fully formed, heavy and unforgiving, and my stomach drops as if I’ve missed a step on the stairs.
My throat goes dry as I swallow, my pulse loud in my ears, and I can’t reconcile that sentence with the man who laughed with me, teased me, touched me like I wasn’t something fragile he might break.
He was funny, playful in a way that disarmed me, charming without trying, and beneath that easy confidence—beneath the smirks and the warmth—he runs a crime ring.
He commands violence. He commands loyalty bought with blood.
Power coils around him in ways I don’t fully understand yet, and I let him touch me.
I let myself fall into him. I let myself believe, even briefly, that what we were building was something real and not laced through with danger and lies.
Disgust rolls through me, sharp and hot, because the truth is I didn’t just make a mistake—I relaxed.
I stopped carrying everything alone. I let myself imagine what it would feel like to be safe with someone, to be held without calculating the cost, and to believe that maybe, just once, I didn’t have to be the one bracing for impact.
I let myself be a dreamer, and the realization makes my chest tighten painfully.
Then the thought I’ve been avoiding surfaces, slow and relentless.
He stalked me.
It doesn’t hit all at once. It seeps in, cold and poisonous, twisting my stomach as it settles.
My skin prickles, every nerve suddenly aware of itself, and my breath catches as the depth of it sinks in.
I wasn’t special. I wasn’t chosen. I was watched.
Measured. I was an objective—a target—studied from the shadows before I even knew who he really was.
A shiver runs through me, and I wrap my arms around myself, like I can physically hold myself together through the weight of that truth.
He always knew where I was. He always appeared at the right time, and the right place, like an invisible thread pulling him toward me.
I told myself it was coincidence, maybe even fate, because the alternative was too ugly to look at.
But it was never luck. He learned my habits, my routines, the ways I falter when I’m overwhelmed, and the places I go when I need quiet.
He catalogued my vulnerabilities while I stood there believing I mattered, believing what we were becoming was something soft and earned.
And then he said he would find the women impersonating me.
Of course he would. That part fits too cleanly now.
He has the reach, the resources, and the ability to manipulate the world around him with frightening ease.
It should terrify me how effortlessly he bends things to his will, how precise and calculated it all is.
And it does. But then my mind betrays me again, replaying the memory that hurts more than anything else—when I told him I was lonely, and he stayed home.
He delayed leaving to be with me, when he could have been anywhere, running his empire, hunting threats, and enforcing his power.
For a moment, I let myself believe it meant something. That I meant something.
The illusion shatters just as quickly as it formed.
Zephyra. Everything bends back to it. Every kindness.
Every choice. Every moment I thought belonged to me.
What felt like tenderness was strategy. What felt like care was containment, another way to keep me exactly where he needed me.
I wasn’t being swept off my feet. I was being led, step by careful step, and I didn’t even realize it.
He told me this isn’t a fairytale.
I laughed then, thinking he was joking, and warning me away from unrealistic expectations.
But standing here now, hollowed out and shaking, I finally understand.
I am not a princess waiting in a tower. There was never going to be a rescue, never a white horse coming to carry me somewhere safe.
I was na?ve enough to believe in a happy ending, to think that if I just let myself fall, someone would catch me.
The truth presses on me, crushing and intimate.
None of this was for me. Not really. My breath stutters as my chest tightens painfully, and the realization wraps around my throat like a noose.
This was never about saving me. Never about justice.
It was about control. Ownership. The drug.
That’s the truth I refused to see because it hurt too much to admit—I fell, and he never did.
Betrayal is such a small word. Eight letters. Three syllables. It shouldn’t have the power to dismantle me like this, but it does.
The sound that tears out of me is raw and broken, echoing off the walls as my legs finally give out beneath me.
I sink to the floor, folding in on myself as tears come hard and fast, violent and uncontrollable.
I cry for the trust I gave him, for the version of myself that believed she could finally stop bracing, for the quiet and dangerous dreams I let myself have about not being alone anymore.
My body shakes with it, my chest burns, and every breath feels like it’s scraping me raw on the way out.
Time blurs. When the sobs finally taper off, I’m left with a pounding head, a shredded throat, and exhaustion so heavy it presses me into the floor.
The pain doesn’t leave—it settles beneath my ribs, constant and unyielding.
My stomach twists painfully, reminding me that I haven’t eaten all day, the normalcy of it almost cruel.
Grief doesn’t erase basic needs, no matter how much it feels like it should.
I force myself upright, wiping at my face with trembling hands.
I need water. Food. Something solid to anchor me before I disappear completely.
Downstairs, the kitchen is quiet, washed in soft light.
I fill a glass with water and brace myself against the counter as I drink, the coolness easing the burn in my throat just enough to keep me standing.
I grab whatever is closest from the fridge, barely registering what it is.
Then the elevator chimes.
My body goes still before my thoughts catch up.
I already know what I’m going to see, and still I move closer, peering around the corner just in time to see him.
Asher. Dressed in black, weapons strapped to his chest like they belong there, like this is who he is when no one is pretending.
His face is unreadable, controlled, and certain, as he steps into the elevator and the doors slide shut behind him.
A chill settles deep in my bones, my fingers tightening around the glass until it hurts. I could call out to him. Ask why. Demand answers. But I don’t, because I already know.
This isn’t a fairytale.
And the man I thought might keep me safe was never my savior at all—he was the one who taught me how dangerous it was to dream.