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Chapter 11 Tomorrow’s Cost
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2025-12-05 22:42:54
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Paper Promises Paper Shields
Dante I’ve survived hostile takeovers, boardroom coups, and a childhood that felt like living inside a collapsing cathedral. None of that terrified me the way tonight does. Lyra saw me break. She wasn’t supposed to. I told her to go. She stayed. I told her not to look at me. She did anyway. And worst of all— I wanted her there. It takes me an hour to work up the nerve to knock on her door. I don’t touch it at first. I brace my hand an inch away and wait until I’m sure I won’t tremble. Finally, I tap once. “Lyra.” A soft rustle. Then: “Come in.” Her room is dimly lit, warm. She’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, hair down, wearing one of the soft shirts she stole from my side of the closet. The sight hits me low in the chest. “You shouldn’t be up,” I say. “You shouldn’t be alone,” she replies. I inhale slowly. “May I sit?” She nods. I sit on the edge of the bed, hands clasped, posture too perfect—like a man preparing to make a confession in court. “
Paper Promises The Public Eye, The Private Truth
Lyra The first time I attend a press lunch as Dante Marcellus’s fiancée, I learn two things immediately: 1. The salad forks alone cost more than my monthly rent used to. 2. Reporters can smell blood in the water even when no one’s actually bleeding yet. The private dining room is staged like a peace treaty conference—white tablecloths, curated floral arrangements, low gold lighting meant to make everyone look richer, calmer, softer than they really are. Dante’s hand hovers at the small of my back as we enter. Not touching—just a breath away, like a promise or a warning. “They’ll play nice at first,” he murmurs. “Don’t let the smiles fool you.” “I work in finance,” I whisper back. “I’ve met sharks.” He gives me a look—brief, sharp, appreciative. “You’ve met minnows. This is different.” I smile like I’m unbothered. I absolutely am bothered. The seating has already been arranged: place cards with looping calligraphy, the kind of handwriting that implies generational wealth.
Paper Promises Pressure Points
Dante I stand there for a moment, hand still on the handle, wanting to knock again and knowing I shouldn’t. She didn’t slam it — she’s too controlled for that — but the message was unmistakable: Give me space. Or maybe: Don’t follow me if all you’ll give me is half-truths. I let go of the doorknob. The hallway is too quiet. The whole penthouse feels wrong — like all the angles shifted when she walked out of that dining room. I turn back toward the living area. Elias is still sprawled in Dante’s favorite chair like he’s auditioning for the role of “person I regret knowing.” Victor stands near the bar, watching the doorway I came through. Langford has already fled — probably texting his therapist. The room falls silent as I enter. “Everything alright?” Victor asks. He already knows the answer. “Yes,” I lie. “We’re finished.” “With dinner?” Elias asks, swirling his drink lazily. “Or with her?” I look at him. Slowly. He smiles like a child poking a bruise. “
Paper Promises The Table Where Nothing Is Innocent
Lyra I should have known dinner with men like this wouldn’t involve “dinner.” When the calendar invite showed up on my phone I should’ve just declined. But I’m stubborn. And curious. It’s more of a display. A negotiation disguised as small talk. A stage with cutlery. Rhoades seats me at Dante’s right side, which already feels like a test. Across from me: three men who look like three different types of trouble. Langford is the kind who apologizes before he speaks. Victor is the kind who knows too much and says too little. And Elias…is the kind who thinks everyone at the table is a toy. “Lyra,” Elias says, lifting his glass. He stretches my name out like he’s tasting it. “We finally meet.” I smile politely. “You say that like I’ve been ducking you.” “Have you?” he asks, eyes bright with amused cruelty. Before I can answer, Dante says, “She hasn’t.” “It was a joke, Marcellus,” Elias says, leaning back in his chair. “Relax.” Victor glances at me. It’s quick,
Paper Promises Chapter 11 Tomorrow’s Cost
DanteTomorrow starts with blood.Not hers. Not this time.The markets open red and stay there. A glitch in an algorithmic fund slams half the sector; three of our clients panic; one of them sends a seven-paragraph email accusing us of collusion with gravity.I skim it, flag it, and move on. This is the kind of chaos I know how to handle.The kind I don’t is waiting in my inbox.Subject: Draft — Quinn/Marcellus Human Interest Piece (Unapproved)The email is from Comms. The attachment is from hell.I open it.The headline is soft, like a knife with a smile.From Debt to Diamond: The Woman Who Captured Dante Marcellus.There’s a photo of Lyra outside our old building—hair pulled back, cheap canvas bag on her shoulder, Maya beside her with a coffee and a grin too big for the frame. The shot is zoomed, grainy, invasive. The kind you get when you wait in a car across the street.The captions speculate. They talk about “humble beginnings.” They call her “financially vulnerable.” They call M
Paper Promises Handles and Fault Lines
LyraThe sound comes first.Soft piano, clean as breath. The kind of melody that’s too gentle for morning.I blink awake to the unfamiliar rhythm—the faint hum of something mechanical beneath it. A small, sleek device sits on my nightstand. Next to it: a folded silk mask, black, expensive, unapologetic.A card leans against the base. No logo, no flourish. Just his handwriting.For the hours that won’t behave.I trace the ink with my thumb before I can stop myself. The letters are precise, like he drafted them first. I should feel comforted. Instead, I feel cataloged.Because of course he would notice my insomnia. Of course he would solve it before I asked. That’s what he does—turns people into patterns and fixes them before they break.I switch off the machine. The silence that follows sounds too honest.He’s in the kitchen when I find him, sleeves rolled, phone face-down. Even like this—half-absent, half-effortless—he fills the room.He sees me before I speak. “Did you sleep?”“Event
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