9

Anya’s POV

10:27 AM — Somewhere in the Midwest

By the time the sponsors finally left the bus, I had perfected the art of smiling without warmth.

My cheeks hurt. My jaw ached. My soul felt like it needed a very long shower and possibly an exorcism.

“Great energy today,” one of the lawyers said as he stepped down the bus stairs, flashing me a grin that suggested he’d bill Kai for breathing oxygen. “Really strong recovery narrative.”

Recovery narrative.

That was what we were calling this now. Not a man whose hand had been filleted by fate and bad decisions, but a narrative. A consumable arc with bullet points and sponsors.

I waited until the doors hissed shut behind them before letting my smile collapse.

Ben exhaled loudly beside me. “Well. That was fun. Only three more weeks of this and I can retire to a beach and let tinnitus take me.”

I checked my clipboard, because if I didn’t cling to tasks, I might start screaming. “Kai’s press walk-through is in forty minutes. Ethan wants him dressed, seated, and ‘visibly cooperative.’”

Ben barked out a humorless laugh. “Good luck with that.”

He wandered off toward the front of the bus, leaving me alone in the lounge with the faint smell of cologne, money, and impending disaster.

I stared down the corridor that led to Kai’s suite.

The drawer.

The journal.

My mother’s initials.

A.S.

The image replayed behind my eyes like a glitch I couldn’t fix. That journal had vanished the night after her funeral. My father had torn the house apart looking for it. I’d cried myself sick over it.

And it had been sitting—casually, obscenely—in Kai Rhodes’s bedside drawer.

I wrapped my fingers tighter around my clipboard until the metal edge bit into my palm.

Get it together, Anya.

You were hired to be invisible.

You were hired to shut up.

You were hired to not investigate your way into oblivion.

And yet.

I took a breath and walked toward the back.

Kai’s suite door was open this time.

That alone set my nerves humming.

Inside, the curtains had been pulled back, letting in a flat wash of daylight that made everything look harsher, more real. Kai stood near the window, his back to me, dressed in black jeans and a thin black T-shirt that clung to his shoulders like it had been designed to suffer artistically.

His left hand was strapped into a sleeker brace now—less medical, more deliberate. As if pain had been styled for public consumption.

He didn’t turn when I stepped in.

“I didn’t call for you,” he said.

His voice was calm.

That was worse than rage.

“I’m not here by invitation,” I replied, keeping my tone neutral. Professional. Dead inside. “I’m here because your manager wants you ready for press in thirty-eight minutes.”

A beat.

Then, slowly, he turned.

His eyes landed on me with surgical precision. No heat. No fury. Just cool, assessing distance—as if he were deciding where to place a blade.

“Did Ethan also ask you to snoop through my things again?” he asked.

There it was.

I felt the accusation hit, sharp and deliberate.

“I wasn’t snooping,” I said. “I was standing exactly where I was told to stand.”

“Funny,” he murmured. “Because you seem to have a habit of seeing things that aren’t yours.”

I stepped further into the room before I could stop myself. “Then maybe stop leaving your ghosts out in the open.”

His jaw tightened.

For one reckless second, I thought he might throw something.

Instead, he laughed—low and humorless. “Careful, Anya. You’re starting to sound like you think you’re entitled to answers.”

“I’m entitled to my sanity,” I shot back. “Which is rapidly deteriorating in this floating asylum.”

He took a step closer.

One step. That was all.

It was enough to make my pulse stutter.

“Let me be very clear,” he said quietly. “You don’t get to wander into my life, catalog my pain, and then act wounded when you find something that makes you uncomfortable.”

My mouth opened.

Then closed.

Because the truth—ugly and inconvenient was that he wasn’t wrong.

Still, anger flared. “You don’t get to keep relics of my mother like souvenirs.”

That did it.

Something sharp flashed across his face—too fast to fully read, but unmistakably real.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then explain it,” I challenged. “Explain why you have something that disappeared the night she died.”

Silence slammed down between us.

Heavy. Pressurized.

For a moment, I thought he might actually tell me. That he might crack open whatever vault he’d locked that truth inside.

Instead, he looked away.

And somehow, that felt more intimate than a confession.

“Get me dressed,” he said flatly. “Or leave.”

I swallowed.

Fine.

Professional. Invisible. Furniture.

I moved toward the wardrobe, pulling out the pre-selected outfit Ethan had approved. A charcoal jacket. Soft fabric. Easy lines. Something that screamed fragile genius without actually saying the words.

As I held it out to him, my fingers brushed his wrist.

Barely a touch.

Electric.

The contact sent a sharp jolt up my arm, like static jumping skin to skin.

I hated myself for the way my breath hitched.

Hated my body for reacting like this was anything other than a disaster waiting to happen.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

His eyes dropped to where our hands had touched, then lifted slowly back to my face.

Something dark and unreadable flickered there.

“Careful,” he said softly. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m not,” I lied.

He took the jacket from me with his good hand, his fingers grazing mine deliberately this time.

On purpose.

I stiffened.

There it was.

Not hostility.

Not hatred.

A test.

He slid the jacket on, wincing slightly as the fabric pulled across his injured side. Instinct kicked in before my brain could intervene.

“Wait,” I said, stepping closer. “Your shoulder…”

I reached for him.

He froze.

So did I.

We stood there, absurdly close, my hand hovering inches from his chest. I could feel the heat of him. Smell him. Something dark and clean and painfully human.

For a second, the world narrowed to the space between us.

“Don’t,” he said quietly.

My hand dropped.

The moment shattered.

He straightened, composure snapping back into place like armor. “Save your concern. It won’t earn you access.”

I bristled. “Everything isn’t a transaction, Kai.”

“Isn’t it?” he countered. “You’re here because you were paid. I’m here because I was trapped. Seems pretty transactional to me.”

The words stung because they were aimed directly at the part of me I was trying not to examine.

Before I could respond, Ethan appeared in the doorway, impeccably timed as always.

“Ah. Perfect,” he said, smiling like a man watching pieces slide exactly where he wanted them. “You’re both ready.”

His gaze flicked between us, sharp and knowing.

I hated him a little more for it.

“Press in ten,” he continued. “Remember the angle. Resilience. Reflection. Redemption.”

Kai said nothing.

Neither did I.

As Ethan turned to leave, his hand brushed my arm—not accidental. His grip tightened briefly, a silent reminder.

Behave.

The door shut behind him.

Kai exhaled slowly, rubbing his good hand over his face. “He enjoys this. You know that, right?”

“Yes,” I said. “He enjoys control.”

His eyes snapped to mine.

Something passed between us then. Recognition. Shared loathing.

A thin, dangerous thread.

“We should go,” I added. “They’re waiting.”

He nodded once.

As we walked down the narrow corridor together, the air felt charged—like something had shifted, imperceptibly but permanently.

This wasn’t just war anymore.

It was proximity.

Memory.

Desire crawling under resentment’s skin.

And worst of all…

Curiosity.

I had come here to destroy him.

Somewhere between a missing journal and a near-touch that made my toes curl in traitorous response, I had begun to realize the more terrifying truth:

If I wasn’t careful, he might destroy me first.

And I wasn’t entirely sure I’d hate it.