The apartment felt empty.
Isla had been home for three hours. Alone. Killian hadn't called. Hadn't texted. Hadn't come home.
She sat on the couch with untouched wine, Richard's business card—retrieved from the trash—burning a hole in her pocket.
What power do you actually have?
The question wouldn't stop echoing.
She'd learned Killian's business. Understood his empire. Could navigate his world.
But it was still his world. His empire. His power that she borrowed.
If something happened to him, would his organization follow her? Or would they scatter, leaving her with nothing?
Her phone buzzed. Mara.
"Hey, how's married life?"
"Complicated." Isla's voice was rough.
"What happened?"
"I think I just ruined everything."
"Talk to me."
Isla explained. Not about Richard—she couldn't risk that spreading. But about the fight. About wanting independence. About Killian's cold dismissal.
"You're an idiot," Mara said bluntly.
"Thanks. Very supportive."
