Chapter 1 - The Weight of Scars and ShadowsThe cold linoleum of the hospital bathroom floor had been my sanctuary for nearly twenty minutes before I finally found the strength to stand. But this wasn't a hospital. It was a seventh-floor apartment overlooking the glittering, indifferent expanse of Chicago, and the man who had pulled me out of the fire was a mystery wrapped in custom wool and cold indifference.
I stared at the blond man standing in the hallway, his posture rigid, his expression an irritating blend of absolute boredom and hyper-vigilance.
“What’s your name?” I asked again, my voice raspy from the screaming match in my head and the tears I had cried until my throat felt raw.
“Kian,” he replied, his blue eyes flicking over me to assess whether I was about to faint or bolt. “Kian Vance. And before you ask, no, I don't sleep in the hallway. I slept on the couch three feet to your left. Ronan likes to be thorough about security.”
“Ronan,” I muttered, tasting the name on my tongue. It sounded like granite and winter wind. “Who is he, Kian? Is he a cop? A criminal? A cartel boss with a soft spot for barefoot runaways?”
Kian’s lips twitched into a dry, humorless smirk. “Let’s go with ‘complicated businessman’ and leave it at that. Come on. There’s coffee, and more importantly, someone dropped off clothes for you about ten minutes ago.”
He gestured down the hallway toward a minimalist kitchen where steam was rising from a sleek chrome machine. On the marble island sat a plain white shopping bag bearing the logo of a high-end Michigan Avenue boutique.
I crossed my arms defensively, feeling the oversized cotton pajama top Ronan had apparently scavenged or had delivered. “I didn't ask anyone to buy me clothes. I can’t pay for this.”
“Nobody said anything about paying,” Kian said, turning his back to pour two cups of black coffee. “Ronan doesn’t do charity, but he also doesn't leave loose ends. Consider it standard operating procedure for stray cats.”
“I am not a stray cat,” I snapped, though my voice lacked bite. I was a twenty-four-year-old woman who had spent the last twelve hours fleeing a man who treated my ribs like a punching bag.
“Right. Stray cats usually have more fight in them before noon,” Kian tossed back smoothly, sliding a cup across the counter.
I ignored the coffee and walked over to the shopping bag. Inside, I found a pair of soft black leggings, an oversized cashmere sweater the color of oatmeal, and brand-new leather ankle boots that somehow matched my exact size down to the millimeter. That last detail sent a strange, cold shiver down my spine. How did they know my size?
When I emerged from the guest bathroom ten minutes later, dressed in the cashmere and leggings, the apartment was quiet. The view from the floor-to-ceiling windows showed the city waking up under a pale, watery autumn sun. Traffic crawled along the interstate below like metal ants.
Ronan Morgan was standing by the window.
He had changed out of his suit into a dark grey henley that clung to the broad planes of his chest and shoulders. The sleeves were pushed up, revealing pale, jagged scars wrapping around his left forearm—reminders of battles I knew nothing about. He wasn't holding a phone or a document. He was just looking out at the city, motionless.
“You’re awake,” he said without turning around.
“It’s hard to sleep when your entire life has been blown up in forty-eight hours,” I said, walking slowly toward the kitchen island. “Are you going to tell me why you brought me here? Or are you just collecting broken things for your penthouse?”
Ronan turned his head slowly. His winter-pine eyes locked onto mine, stripping away every defense I tried to put up. There was no warmth in his gaze, but there was an intense, suffocating focus that made my breath catch.
“Your father is Gregor Easton,” Ronan said, stating it not as a question, but as a verified intelligence file. “A disgraced municipal auditor who lost his pension to gambling debts five years ago and has spent every day since taking it out on his daughter.”
My blood ran cold. I gripped the edge of the marble counter. “How do you know that?”
“It’s my job to know who operates in my city,” Ronan said, stepping away from the window and closing the distance between us with slow, deliberate strides. “Especially when they cross paths with me. Gregor has two bench warrants for assault, local police in three precincts on his payroll, and a bad habit of hiding his violence behind closed doors.”
“And you?” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs. “What’s your bad habit, Ronan?”
He stopped just a foot away from me. Up close, he towered over me, smelling of rain, cedar, and expensive soap.
“Survival,” he said quietly. “And tying up loose ends.”
Before I could process the threat—or the promise—in his voice, the secure intercom near the front door buzzed with a sharp, piercing sound.
Kian stepped out of the living room instantly, his hand dipping inside his jacket. Ronan didn't break eye contact with me, but his jaw hardened into stone.
“Answer it, Kian,” Ronan commanded.
Kian pressed the button on the wall panel. A voice crackled through the speaker—harsh, desperate, and terrifyingly familiar.
“Iris! Open the door, you ungrateful little bitch! I know you’re in there!”
May you like
Gregor.
My knees buckled. I grabbed onto the edge of the counter, my vision blurring at the edges as the sound of my father’s voice filled the high-end apartment, tearing down the illusion of safety we had built in the night.
