All Chapters of His Halo is a Lie: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

The ride back from the club feels endless, even though the city is nothing but a blur of neon lights and winding streets. Saint doesn’t speak. He hasn’t looked at me once since he uttered those two words, one day.One day. A promise that feels more like a chain.I press my palms against my knees, forcing myself to stay calm, but the silence is suffocating. His profile is carved out against the glow of passing headlights, sharp and unreadable. He looks like he belongs to the darkness outside, like he was made from it.When the car finally pulls into the garage beneath the penthouse, I can’t get out fast enough. My legs carry me toward the elevator, and for a moment, I think he’ll let me go. But his voice stops me, quiet and commanding all at once.“Maya.”I turn slowly. He stands by the car, his hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on me like I’m something fragile and dangerous at the same time.“You don’t walk into Nico’s orbit again. Ever. Do you understand?”My chest tightens, anger cur

I wake to the sound of my own heartbeat. Fast, uneven, too loud in the silence of the penthouse. For a second, I don’t remember where I am. Then the pieces slide back into place: the night at the club, Nico’s warning, Saint’s silence, Elias’s refusal, Lucio’s suspicion. It all folds together into one heavy knot in my chest.I sit up, staring at the wide window across the room. Los Angeles is spread out like a blanket of fire, towers of glass glinting in the dawn. It should be beautiful, but all I feel is trapped.This place isn’t mine. Nothing here belongs to me. Not the polished floors that reflect too much light, not the expensive art pieces lining the walls, not the silence that presses in like it wants to smother me. Even the clothes in my closet aren’t mine. They’re things Saint had sent up, still with tags, still stiff with newness. I hate the way it makes me feel—like I’m being dressed, molded, curated. Like I’m a doll in his glass box.By the time I drag myself to the kitchen,

I can’t breathe.The words Elias gave me are still circling like vultures in my head, tearing pieces out of me. My brother wasn’t who I thought he was. He worked for both Saint and Vincent. He thought he could survive their war and failed.Vincent killed him.Every time I say it in my head, it feels like a lie. My brother wasn’t perfect, God knows he wasn’t, but he wasn’t reckless either. He wasn’t greedy. He wasn’t… this.I bury my face in my pillow, pressing it hard against my mouth to muffle the sound that rips out of me. It’s not a sob, not exactly. It’s something rawer, more animal. A sound born from loss that never healed, only scabbed over, and now someone has ripped it open again.I want to hate Saint for keeping this from me. For standing in front of me all these weeks with that cold, unreadable face while he held onto the truth. For thinking he gets to decide what I can or can’t handle.But the worst part is, I don’t just want to hate him. I want to understand him. And I don

I couldn’t sleep if I tried.His words are still echoing in my head, rolling over me like waves that refuse to settle. You’re the only piece I can’t afford to lose.Piece. Not woman. Not partner. Not love. A piece. A part of his empire, his war, his world of shadows and control.But even as anger simmers in my chest, a part of me trembles with something I don’t want to name. The way he looked at me when he said it, like I was the only thing tethering him to what’s left of his humanity, shook me.And that’s the problem. He shakes me.I lie awake staring at the ceiling, tracing the patterns of faint city light that filter through the curtains. The penthouse is silent, but silence doesn’t mean safety. Silence here feels like the pause before a storm.My brother’s face flashes through my mind. His laugh. His easy confidence. The way he always called me kid, even when I hated it. I never doubted him, not once. And now Elias tells me he played both sides. That he worked for Saint and Vincen

The door closes behind him with a finality that echoes through my chest.The silence that follows is heavier than any noise could be. I stand there in his study, the scattered pages still littering the floor, the air thick with the sharp scent of whiskey and smoke. My hands are trembling, though whether from fear, anger, or something else, I can’t tell.Saint is gone.I should feel relief. His presence suffocates me, his words coil around my ribs like chains. But the moment the door slammed shut, the relief I expected didn’t come. Instead, a hollow ache spreads in my chest, one I don’t want to name.I sink into his chair, the leather cool against my skin. My eyes wander to the folder he snatched from me, the papers strewn across the desk. My brother’s name stares up at me from half a dozen reports. Each word is another knife.I reach out, fingertips brushing over the handwriting that I now know is Saint’s. Sharp, efficient strokes. Calculated. Detached. Notes about my brother’s meetin