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Chapter 23
Last Updated:
2025-05-17 16:43:41.
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Chapter 23: The last Bite
The screen dimmed, but Isla didn’t blink.
She couldn’t. Her eyes were locked on the glowing remnants of what she’d just read—the email, the images, the audio file still humming faintly in the background like a ghost that refused to leave.
Then she saw his name.
Christopher.
Her throat closed.
He wasn’t just part of her present. He was the thread she thought she'd severed—tied to the past she’d buried, locked away, renamed.
He knew.
He’d known all along.
Watched her. Followed her. Then had the audacity to pretend he didn’t recognize her when they “met.”
The phone slipped from her hand and shattered on the cold marble. The crack echoed, sharp and final—but her ears were ringing too loud to care.
She was already out the door.
---
She didn’t knock. She never would again.
The guards didn’t try to stop her—they must’ve seen something in her face. Something cold. Something set.
Christopher was standing by the window, shirtless, the city’s lights casting him in a bruised gold. A full glass of whiskey sat untouched on the table beside him.
“I got your message,” he said, not turning around.
His voice was steady. Too steady.
“Did you now?” Isla’s voice came low, controlled, but her knuckles were bloodless from how tightly her hands clenched.
He turned, slowly, carefully—like he already knew what was coming.
And when their eyes locked, it was like striking a match.
“You knew me,” she said. Barely more than a breath. “Long before we met.”
He didn’t deny it.
Didn’t look away.
“I did.”
It hit her harder than any lie.
Her fingers twitched. Her body trembled, not from fear—but from betrayal.
“You lied to me,” she whispered. “Every moment, every touch, every time you looked at me like I was safe.”
“I didn’t lie about that.”
She laughed, sharp and bitter. “You didn’t lie? You built our entire life on a secret. You watched me claw my way out of hell, and you stood there. Silent.”
Christopher moved to the bar, poured a drink with too much focus—his hand almost shaking—but he didn’t drink.
“I saw you once,” he said, staring into the glass like it held answers. “At the courthouse. Three years ago. You were testifying against your father’s partner. You were terrified. But you didn’t flinch. I remember thinking—you looked like someone who’d already been through the fire and decided never to burn again.”
Her heart pounded so hard she could barely breathe.
“You were watching me?”
“I was sent to,” he admitted. “By Victor.”
The name knocked the air from her lungs.
Victor. Her husband’s ghost. Her father’s demon.
“You were working for him?”
“I was supposed to keep tabs on you. Make sure you didn’t talk too much. Victor thought you had leverage. But then I started… seeing you. Really seeing you.”
“And what?” she snapped. “Fell in love with your target?”
“I didn’t plan to.” He set the glass down. “But it happened.”
Isla stepped back, as if the distance might stop the ache in her chest.
“So I was a mission. A threat. A woman you watched cry herself to sleep, and you said nothing. Did nothing.”
“I couldn’t,” he said, voice low. “But I wanted to. Every goddamn day.”
Her hands shot out. She shoved him hard, her voice rising. “You should’ve told me! You should’ve given me a choice.”
“I wanted to. I swear. But you were already too far gone. You needed someone to believe in, and I couldn’t ruin that.”
She stared at him, eyes brimming. “You ruined it anyway.”
“I know.”
He reached for her—hesitant, unsure. His fingertips brushed her cheek, and God help her, she didn’t pull away. Not right away.
“I love you,” he murmured, voice cracking. “But I also broke something in you. I know that.”
Tears threatened. She swallowed them down like fire.
“This isn’t love,” she said quietly. “Not yet. Love isn’t built on silence. It’s built on truth. And pain. And choice. And you took that from me.”
He dropped his hand.
“What happens now?”
She looked at him—really looked. Not the man she wanted him to be, but the one who stood there now, exposed and unraveling.
“We burn it all down,” she said. “Victor. The lies. The past. And then maybe—maybe—when the smoke clears, we see what’s left.”
---
That night, Isla didn’t go back to his bed.
She sat alone on the rooftop, arms wrapped around herself, the wind curling through her hair like fingers trying to comfort her.
Below, the city glowed—beautiful, dangerous, unforgiving.
She closed her eyes. Breathed.
Tomorrow, the war would begin.
But tonight?
Tonight, she remembered who she was.
And she didn’t run.
Not anymore.
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