Chapter 25

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Chapter 25: Undecided.

The city refused to sleep. Isla tried anyway.

When she jolted awake, the clock on the nightstand blinked 2:59 a.m. Her skin was slick with sweat, her breath uneven. Same nightmare, different night—Victor’s hand choking the life out of her, her father’s voice muffled behind glass, metal screaming against metal, the scent of blood.

She sat up and buried her face in her hands. Her lungs still hadn’t caught up.

The war outside had cracked something inside her—and now it echoed louder than ever.

Next to her, Christopher lay still, his back to her, arm outstretched but not touching. That space between them felt deliberate. Since the call with Victor, something fragile had settled in the silence between them. He’d been careful. Careful like a man afraid his touch might tip her into pieces.

What he didn’t know—what she couldn’t say—was that she already felt like she was breaking.

Quietly, she slid out of bed, barefoot across the cold floor. The kitchen lights stayed off. Let the city lights do the haunting.

She opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and leaned against the counter. Her thoughts came uninvited—Vi’s warning about the mole in the D.A.’s office, Marcus’s files scattered like breadcrumbs leading to buried rot, the black car that trailed them for six blocks last night then vanished.

It wasn’t just about getting justice anymore.

It was about staying alive long enough to deliver it.

“I heard you scream.”

His voice came from the hallway, low and rough.

She didn’t look at him. “It was nothing.”

“It’s never nothing,” Christopher said.

She closed the fridge. Walked past him without meeting his eyes. The balcony doors groaned open as she stepped outside. The air was cool and sharp, slicing through her fog.

“I can’t sleep,” she said, not turning around. “Every time I try, he’s there.”

Christopher lingered at the doorway. “I know what that’s like.”

She finally faced him. “Do you? You worked for him. You did things I’ll never know the full truth about. How do I know I’m not just chasing a monster that looks a lot like the man I trusted?”

That hit. Hard.

But he didn’t flinch.

“You don’t,” he said. “But I do.”

That stopped her.

He walked forward, slow, deliberate. “I let you in because you saw through me. You didn’t look away. And you made me want to be something better. I never knew I needed that until you.”

Her chest ached.

“I’ve lied,” he said quietly. “Hurt people. Chosen the dirty way forward more times than I want to count. But since you… I don’t want to keep being that man.”

She stared at her hands gripping the bottle.

“You’re not the only one who wakes up screaming,” he said.

Silence stretched.

“Then maybe,” she said softly, “we stop running from it.”

He reached for her. Fingers brushed hers, tentative.

“Together?”

She didn’t answer with words. Just stepped into him. Let his arms close around her. Not to fix her. Not to save her.

Just to stand in the wreckage with her.

Two people who knew what it was to fall apart—and were still choosing to fight.

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The Next Morning

The quiet was too clean. Too sharp.

Isla’s phone buzzed with Vi’s voice cutting straight through the stillness. “You need to come. Right now. Safehouse. Don’t ask questions.”

Ten minutes later, they were flying through the city in the SUV. Christopher drove with his jaw clenched and hands locked on the wheel. Isla sat beside him, phone in her lap, staring at the grainy still image Vi had sent.

A hooded man. Standing across the street from their penthouse.

Timestamp: 2:47 a.m.

Seconds after her nightmare.

She shivered. “I wasn’t imagining it.”

Christopher didn’t look away from the road. “They’re pushing harder.”

At the safehouse—an unmarked bunker of steel and concrete—Vi waited, pale and wired, dragging them to her monitors like the truth couldn’t wait another second.

“I traced the phone signal from the man outside your building,” she said, fingers flying across the keys. “It’s a burner. One used by someone close to Victor.”

“Who?” Isla asked.

Vi hesitated. That hesitation was enough to turn Isla cold.

“It’s… coming from inside the District Attorney’s office,” she said.

Christopher straightened. “That’s impossible.”

“No,” Isla muttered. “It’s worse. That means someone in law enforcement is on Victor’s leash.”

Vi turned the screen. “It’s not just anyone. The burner’s registered to someone close to you, Isla.”

She hit a key. The screen lit up.

Naomi Hart.

Isla froze.

Naomi—her mother’s best friend. The one who hugged her the day they buried her father. Who brought cookies during court hearings. Who told Isla to hold on, to stay strong.

Her voice cracked. “That can’t be right.”

Vi didn’t speak. She just pulled up the logs—coded calls with Victor, money trail in off-shore accounts, and a photo of Naomi at a charity gala, her hand resting on Victor’s arm like it belonged there.

Isla stared at it.

And then the rage hit.

“I need to see her.”

Christopher didn’t blink. “We go together.”

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The Confrontation

Naomi’s brownstone was still as polished and pleasant as Isla remembered. Ivy curled around the iron gate. Jasmine trailed along the windowsills.

Isla used to play hide-and-seek in that garden.

The door swung open, and Naomi’s face lit up like a pageant.

“Isla! What a—”

“Don’t,” Isla snapped, stepping through the doorway.

Naomi blinked. “I—what’s going on?”

Christopher followed behind, silent and solid. The kind of presence that demanded honesty.

“Who’s watching me?” Isla said, cutting to the point. “Who did you send?”

Naomi’s smile faltered. “I have no idea what you’re talking about—”

“I know about the phone. The money. The photo.”

Naomi’s face drained of color.

“Victor,” Isla hissed. “You worked with him. Lied to me. Protected him.”

Naomi’s breath caught. “I was trying to protect you!”

“From what?” Isla spat. “The truth?”

Naomi collapsed onto the armrest like her legs couldn’t hold the guilt.

“Victor had leverage. Power. He said if I didn’t help cover up the investigation, you’d end up worse than your father. I tried to warn him—”

“You buried him.”

“I loved your mother. I loved you.”

“Then why did you sell me out?”

Naomi’s voice trembled. “You don’t understand what he’s capable of.”

“Oh, I do,” Isla said. “Better than anyone.”

She looked at Christopher, then back at Naomi.

“He isn’t the one I trusted. You were.”

Naomi reached for her. “Please, Isla—”

“Stay away from me,” Isla said coldly. “Or the next thing I leak will have your name on it.”

Naomi collapsed into the armchair like the air had left her lungs.

They left her like that. No words. No closure.

Just betrayal, rotting in sunlight.

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That Night

Isla sat alone in the safehouse lounge, her father’s old pocket watch in her palm. It hadn’t ticked in over a decade. Just like the life it once measured.

Christopher entered quietly.

She looked up—eyes swollen, but steady.

“I see it now,” she said. “All the pieces. All the rot.”

He sat beside her.

“You still want to do this?” he asked.

She didn’t hesitate. “If I don’t, then they win.”

He nodded. Foreheads touched.

“Then we finish it.”

And when they kissed, it wasn’t about desire.

It was a vow.

To stand side by side when the storm came.

To burn if they had to.

To rise if they could.

Together.