Chapter Twenty: The Question

Adrian found me in the storage room the next morning.

I hadn't left. I'd spent the night on the floor, surrounded by my mother's things. Journals. Photographs. Letters. The evidence of her life and her death.

He didn't knock. He just opened the door and stood in the doorway.

"You've been here all night," he said.

"I know."

"You didn't answer your phone."

"I turned it off."

He walked in. He looked at the boxes. The trunk. The papers spread across the floor. He didn't ask what I'd found. He could see it.

"You should eat," he said.

"I'm not hungry."

"You need to eat."

I looked up at him. "I need to finish this."

He crouched beside me. He didn't touch me. He just waited.

"What did you find?" he asked.

I handed him the journal. The one from three days before she died. He read it. His jaw tightened.

"She was going to expose him," I said. "She had everything. She was going to win."

"But she didn't."

"No. She didn't."

He set the journal down. He looked at me.

"You're not her," he said.

"I know."

"You're not going to die."

"I know."

"Do you?"

I looked at him. He looked at me.

"I'm not going to die," I said. "I'm going to win."

He held my gaze. Then he nodded.

"Good," he said.

---

We spent the rest of the morning going through the rest of it.

The journals. The letters. The financial records. Adrian read everything. He didn't miss a detail. He asked questions only when something wasn't clear. When we finished, he sat back.

"This is enough to destroy Julian's father. Publicly. Permanently."

"And Julian?"

"He'll go down with him. He's too connected."

"And Volkov?"

Adrian was quiet. "Volkov is different. He's not going to go quietly."

"Then we make him go loudly."

Adrian looked at me. "What do you mean?"

"We don't just expose him. We humiliate him. We take everything he has. We make him a cautionary tale."

Adrian considered this. "That's dangerous."

"I know."

"He'll retaliate."

"I know."

"You could get hurt."

"I know."

He stood. He walked to the window. He looked out at the city.

"You're not afraid," he said.

"No."

"Why not?"

I stood. I walked to him. I stood beside him.

"Because I've already died once," I said. "I'm not afraid of dying again."

He turned. He looked at me. His eyes were dark. Unreadable.

"I am," he said.

I didn't respond.

"I'm afraid of losing you," he said. "I've spent fifteen years planning revenge. I've spent years alone. And then you walked into my office. And I realized I didn't want to be alone anymore."

I held his gaze. Neither of us spoke.

"I'm not going anywhere," I said.

"You don't know that."

"I know enough."

He reached for my hand. This time, he took it. His fingers were warm. Steady.

"Promise me," he said.

"Promise you what?"

"Promise me you'll be careful. Promise me you won't take unnecessary risks. Promise me you'll let me protect you."

I looked at our hands. I looked at him.

"I can't promise that," I said.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't know what's going to happen. I don't know what Julian will do. I don't know what Volkov will do. I can't promise something I can't control."

He didn't respond. He just looked at me.

"But I can promise you this," I said. "I'll come back. Whatever happens. I'll come back."

He held my gaze. Then he nodded.

"Good," he said.

He leaned forward. He pressed his lips to my forehead. It wasn't a kiss. Not really. It was something else. Something that made my chest tighten.

"Let's go home," he said.

I nodded. I gathered the journals. The letters. The photographs. I packed them into the bag.

We walked out of the storage unit together. The sun was high. The city was loud. The world was still moving.

And for the first time in two lifetimes, I felt like I was moving with it.