I didn't see Aiden the next morning.
The man who burned me with words the night before was gone before sunrise, leaving nothing but an untouched espresso cup on the marble counter and a handwritten note.
Yes — handwritten. Not typed. Not messaged.
Just six words, scrawled in black ink:
"Don't run. I'll be back."
I traced the letters with my finger, then folded the note like it meant nothing.
Even though it meant everything.
—
By noon, I was restless.
I'd walked the perimeter of the penthouse twice, watered plants that weren't mine, and even attempted to meditate — something Jasmine once swore by when she was "cleansing her karma."
Ironically, I should've known back then that someone who needed to cleanse that much karma was probably the problem.
But it was boredom — not revenge — that led me into Aiden's office.
At first, I didn't mean to snoop.
Truly.
I just meant to admire the sheer power of the space.
Tall glass walls. Dark mahogany desk. Shelves of leather-bound books, most of which weren't for show — this man read.
But then I saw the photo.
Tucked halfway into a drawer that wasn't fully shut.
I opened it.
And froze.
It was a photo of me.
No smile. Eyes hollow. Taken a year ago when I'd been waiting outside a therapist's office after the miscarriage.
I'd never seen this photo before.
It wasn't on my socials. I never posted anything from that month. And Travis sure as hell wouldn't have given it to anyone.
So how did Aiden get it?
Why did he have it?
My pulse quickened.
I dug deeper.
Inside the drawer were files. One labeled Scarlett L. Reid in a smooth serif font. Another labeled Travis G. Blackwood – Watchlist.
My hands trembled.
No. No way.
I yanked the Scarlett file open.
Inside were reports. Surveillance logs. Psychiatric evaluations. Mentions of my mother, my education history, even the private details of my miscarriage.
Things I'd never spoken aloud.
Things I hadn't even processed fully myself.
Every inch of my skin crawled.
I felt naked. Exposed. Betrayed.
Was this… was this why he'd married me?
Some kind of project?
Some plan?
Before I could spiral further, the elevator dinged.
Aiden.
I shoved everything back, slammed the drawer shut, and stood behind the desk just as he stepped inside.
He paused.
His eyes flicked to the drawer.
Then to me.
But his expression remained unreadable.
"You've been busy," he said.
"Not as busy as you've been," I said coolly.
He tilted his head.
"You found it," he said.
Not a question.
A statement.
I crossed my arms. "You were watching me."
"I protected you," he said. "Long before you knew you needed it."
"Don't twist it."
"I'm not. But you're angry, so I'll let you say what you need to."
I wanted to scream.
Throw the folder at him.
Demand answers.
Instead, I did the one thing neither of us expected.
I whispered, "Why?"
His jaw clenched.
Then he walked to the window.
"You want the honest version?" he asked.
"Always."
He didn't turn around when he spoke.
"Because I knew you were the only thing that could destroy him."
I blinked.
"Travis?"
"Yes."
I exhaled. "So this was revenge."
"At first," he said quietly. "I needed leverage. Something he couldn't control. Something he'd lost. And you —" he finally turned — "you were the only thing he regretted."
"And now?" I asked, voice trembling.
"Now?" A pause. "You're the only thing I can't regret."
Silence.
Thick. Real. Messy.
I wanted to hate him. God, I did.
But I couldn't ignore the truth behind his eyes — the war, the guilt, the constant torment of a man who'd never been taught how to love without strategy.
So I nodded.
Once.
Cool. Clean. Civil.
"Thank you for your honesty," I said.
And then I walked away.
—
I went to the rooftop pool.
Not to swim.
Just to breathe.
The wind was brisk. My skin tingled.
I was still wearing the silk dress from last night — crimson and backless and completely wrong for solitude. But I didn't care.
Let the cold bite.
Let it remind me I was alive.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number:He's lying, Scar. Meet me at the old rose garden at 8. You need to know the truth. —Jasmine.
Jasmine.
I should've blocked her.
Should've thrown my phone off the rooftop.
But my fingers moved anyway.
Because a part of me needed answers.
Even if it meant walking into another betrayal.
—
By the time I reached the rose garden, dusk had painted the sky a violent shade of gold and gray. The city buzzed in the background, but here, it was quiet.
Too quiet.
Jasmine stood beneath the arched trellis, wearing a black trench coat and six-inch heels.
"You came," she said, smirking.
"Make this fast," I said. "I'm not in the mood for games."
Her smile faltered. "Still sharp, huh?"
"Still fake, huh?"
Her lips tightened.
Then she pulled something from her bag.
A flash drive.
"Everything you need to know about Aiden's real business," she said. "Offshore deals. Corporate raids. Illegal acquisitions. He's not who he says he is."
"And you suddenly care about my well-being?"
"No," she said. "But I care about revenge. And I know he's planning something. Something that doesn't end well for you."
I stared at the drive.
Then back at her.
"Why now?"
"Because you're in deeper than you think."
I took the drive.
And walked away.
But not before saying, "Funny. You still think I'm the weak one."
She didn't reply.
Because we both knew I wasn't anymore.
—
Back at the penthouse, Aiden was waiting.
This time, he didn't ask where I'd gone.
He just looked at me.
Carefully. Quietly.
I placed the flash drive on the table between us.
"Jasmine gave me this," I said. "She said it would ruin you."
He didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
Just said, "And?"
"I haven't looked."
He nodded.
"You're not going to ask me why?"
"No," he said. "Because I already know."
"Oh really?" I challenged.
"Yes," he replied. "Because if you were going to burn me, Scarlett... you would've done it by now."
I stared at him.
This man.
This impossible, powerful, dangerous man.
And finally understood something I'd been denying.
I didn't want to ruin him.
I wanted to change him.
I wanted to matter to him.
Not as a weapon.
Not as a pawn.
But as something real.
—