Two weeks after Adrian and Mila's downfall, Lora's empire was back in her grip. Her warehouses buzzed with activity, her routes were secured, and her name—once whispered as a ghost—was now spoken with awe again.
But she didn't feel triumphant. Not entirely.
Every time she stepped into her office, she expected to see Luke leaning against the doorframe, smirking at her plans, poking holes in her strategy. He had returned to his own operations as quietly as he had entered hers, leaving behind nothing but a short message on her phone:
War's over. Our deal's done. Stay alive, Lora.
And yet she couldn't stop thinking about him.
When Luke finally called again, it was midnight.
"I need to see you," he said.
Her pulse jumped. "You don't order me, Luke."
"It's not an order. It's a warning."
An hour later, she met him at a private rooftop above the docks. The city spread out beneath them, a sprawl of steel and smoke. Luke's hair was damp from rain, his black coat clinging to his shoulders.
"You've been busy," he said, eyes scanning her. "Cleaning up the rest of their mess."
"I always clean up my own messes."
He gave a low laugh. "You're still fire and teeth."
"And you're still a ghost," she shot back. "Why are you here?"
He stepped closer, and for the first time she realized how tall he was, how solid. "Because you've made enemies again. Ones who don't play by my rules. Ones who'll come for you."
"I can handle them."
"I know." His voice dipped lower. "But I'm not letting them take you."
Her heart skipped. "Why, Luke? You hate me."
He was quiet for a long moment, his eyes searching hers. "I thought I did," he said finally. "But even when I wanted you gone, I respected you. You were the only one who never lied, even in this rotten business. And when you remembered me… I couldn't stay away."
The weeks that followed blurred into a dangerous dance. Luke became her shadow, her sparring partner in strategy meetings, her silent guardian at the edges of dark rooms. He taught her his rules, his codes. She taught him how to build without burning.
Late nights turned into long talks.
Long talks turned into touches that lingered.
Touches turned into stolen kisses behind locked doors.
One night, after a skirmish left them both bloodied, she found herself in his apartment, sitting on his kitchen counter while he cleaned a cut on her arm.
"You should've let me go in alone," he muttered.
"You think I'm some princess you need to save?" she snapped.
"No." He pressed the bandage harder than necessary. "I think you're the only person I can't watch die."
Her breath caught. The air between them felt electric, heavier than smoke.
"Luke…"
He leaned in, his forehead touching hers. "You were the one who remembered me, Lora. When you forgot everyone else. Do you know what that did to me?"
"I remembered you because you're the only one who never betrayed me," she whispered. "Because even when we were enemies, you were the only thing that felt… real."
And then his mouth was on hers—hot, desperate, a collision of years of rivalry and grudging respect and something neither of them had dared name.
They didn't become soft.
They didn't become weak.
If anything, together they became sharper—two blades forged into one weapon.
When enemies came for her empire again, Luke fought at her side. When his organization threatened to fracture under his "softness" for her, she stood beside him and burned his dissenters out.
And when the city began to whisper about the king and queen of the underworld, they didn't correct them.
On the balcony of their shared penthouse, with the city sprawled like a conquered kingdom below, Luke poured her a drink and said quietly:
"You know this ends badly for people like us."
Lora smiled, a small, dangerous smile. "Maybe. But at least this time, we go down together."
He raised his glass. "To rivals."
She clinked hers against it. "To partners."
And when he kissed her again under the neon glow, it wasn't rivalry anymore. It was something fiercer. Something permanent.