Chapter 45

Avery’s POV

Tonight, I would carve them out. Permanently.

When I pushed open the soundproof door, Marissa waited. The blinds were drawn, casting the office in deep, strategic shadows, the only illumination coming from a lamp on her mahogany desk.

She was not in her chair. She stood, arms crossed, her entire body a coil of focused energy, her eyes locked on a stack of files that looked dangerous for the calm façade of the university setting.

“You’re late,” she said without looking up, her voice clipped, devoid of inflection—the voice of a general ready for battle.

I closed the door, the mechanism clicking shut and sealing us into a vacuum of conspiracy and consequence. “You’re the one who asked me to come. If you’ve got something you’ve been sitting on, Marissa, now is the time to show it. I’m done with the waiting game.”

She finally looked up. Her gaze was surgical, cutting into me as if she inspected my own psychological defenses.

But beneath that scrutiny, there was something else—a deeper, harder light that suggested immense risk and reward. “Sit down, Avery. What I’m about to tell you does not leave this room. Not until we are ready to detonate.”

I did not sit. Not yet.

I could not afford to relax while the knowledge I craved hung in the air. “You’ve been keeping things from me.”

It was not a question. It was a cold, flat statement of fact. Her jaw tightened, a struggle with her own protocol, but she did not deny it.

“I had to. Information like this… it is not just sensitive—it is explosive.” She let the word linger, giving it its full, dangerous weight.

“If it got into the wrong hands before we were prepared, before we had a counter-narrative, the Von Carters would be crippled. We would be ashes. The entire corporation would be indicted.”

I moved closer to the desk, my palms pressing flat against the polished wood, my anger radiating heat against the surface. “Then stop circling the target, Marissa. Tell me the full scope of the disaster.”

For a long second, she studied my resolve, assessing whether I was composed enough to handle the truth. Then, with a resolute nod, she reached for the top file and opened it.

The first page was a bank statement. Figures so large they blurred into obscenity, arrows drawn in stark red connecting them to layers of shell companies, offshore accounts, and names I recognized.

DeLuca. Bianchi. The snakes.

“This,” Marissa said, her finger tapping against the page, the movement precise, “is the money trail. Classic, complex, and damning. Laundering, international smuggling, political bribes funneled through a network of fraudulent charities, dubious trusts, and falsified art auctions. But here is the part that no one, not even your father, knew.”

Her voice dropped to a cold whisper. “Half of those accounts, Avery, were set up using forged Von Carter signatures on the founding documentation.”

My stomach dropped into the basement. I felt a rush of nauseating rage.

“You’re saying they… they used my family’s name, our standing, as their cover?”

“Yes.” Her voice was ice.

“They used your family name as collateral, as the ultimate guarantee of solvency and impunity. Every dirty deal they struck had your crest stamped in the shadows. If this came to light without the full, irrefutable truth presented first, Avery, the Von Carters would be remembered by history as the architects of organized crime. They intended to make you wear their sins.”

I clenched my jaw, the muscles in my neck standing out, my nails digging half-moons into the desk. “Bastards. Calculated, arrogant bastards.”

The violation felt personal, a stain on our very bloodline. It was a threat to the Von Carter name that my father could not have foreseen, because it was based on an assumption of trust he rarely afforded anyone.

She flipped to the next set of documents. Photographs. Not fuzzy surveillance shots, but crisp, professional captures of clandestine meetings—handshakes caught by long lenses outside restaurants, briefcases exchanged in underground parking garages, their smug faces laid bare by the flash.

DeLuca’s avaricious grin, Bianchi’s cold arrogance—it was all there. My hands shook, fueled by a cold anger, as I turned the pages.

“So it’s them. Always them. No innocent third parties. No mistakes.”

Marissa nodded, her eyes burning with a contained fury. “And these files do not just suggest corruption—they prove it, Avery. Dates, verifiable signatures, account codes, transaction receipts. It is enough to bury them in every court from here to Rome without breaking a sweat. It is more than enough evidence.”

I sank into the chair opposite her, the weight of the evidence, the weight of the impending war, pressing down on my shoulders. “So what is the catch, Marissa? Why the drama? What aren’t you telling me that requires this level of secrecy?”

She closed the file with a snap and reached into the drawer beneath her desk. When her hand emerged, it held a small, silver flash drive, its surface catching the lamplight.

“This,” she said, almost reverently, “is the hydrogen bomb. It is the piece that turns the criminal case into an unavoidable public execution.”

I raised a brow, intrigued and wary. “What, precisely, is on it?”

Her lips curved into something that was not a smile, but a cold, anticipating grin of vengeance. “Audio recordings. Videos. Every whispered deal, every threat, every confession they thought would never see daylight. It is a full accounting of their contempt for us, for the company, for the entire industry. Compiled, verified, timestamped by a forensics team.”

She let the magnitude of the statement sink in. “Do you know who gave it to me?”

I shook my head, my gaze fixed on the tiny device.

“One of their own men. Bianchi’s former fixer, a man who saw enough of their destruction of lives. He had enough of watching them destroy innocent people, and he realized the Von Carters would be their final, largest target. He came to me, swore me to secrecy until I could ensure the data was safe and untraceable.”

She slid the drive across the desk toward me, stopping it with a single, firm finger. “And now, it is safe. With us.”

I stared at the object, its metallic gleam reflecting the lamp. Something so tiny.

Something that could, with a keystroke, end empires and define legacies. “This… this could ruin them,” I whispered, my voice thick with the gravity of the realization.

Marissa’s eyes darkened, her own personal history with corporate crime surfacing. “Not ruin. Expose. This is not just about locking them away, Avery. This is about making sure the world hears what they did. Every shareholder, every politician, every rival, every family who ever trusted their name—they will all know the truth, delivered by their own arrogance. Their legacy will burn and be defined by their own despicable voices.”

The word “burn” rolled off her tongue like fire, and I felt a savage satisfaction curl in my gut. For a moment, silence stretched, the only sound the insistent ticking of her desk clock, measuring out the seconds until detonation.

My chest rose and fell, the anger inside me clawing at my ribs, desperate to be released. I whispered, the words rasping in my throat, “Play it. I need to hear it.”

Marissa hesitated, her expression cautious. “Are you sure? Once you hear this, Avery, once you let this poison into your ears, there is no going back. This confirms the total absence of mercy.”

I leaned forward, my voice a low, dangerous growl. “Play. It. I need the confirmation, and I need the fuel for tomorrow.”

She inserted the drive into her laptop. The screen flashed, and within seconds, a crackling, low-quality audio filled the room.

Bianchi’s voice, slick and arrogant, thick with contempt, cut through the air: “The Von Carters won’t see it coming. Their empire is already ours, piece by piece. All we need is one final push, one timed move, and the papers will be signing their ruin.”

DeLuca’s laughter followed, sharp and cruel, a sound that made my skin crawl with visceral hatred: “And when they fall, we’ll make sure the world thanks us for it. Imagine it, Matteo—the mighty Von Carters, remembered by history as thieves and liars who collapsed under their own weight. We will be heroes.”

My body went rigid, a statue of crystalline fury. My hands curled into fists so tight my knuckles ached, my nails digging into my palms, a desperate physical attempt to contain the explosion inside me.

Marissa watched me, assessing my reaction. “This is just one clip. A short, damning summation. There are hours more, Avery. Enough to bury them ten times over in both the courts and the court of public opinion.”

I forced air into my lungs, my throat dry, my mind racing through the implications. “And you have been holding this—waiting for the perfect moment.”

“Yes,” she said, her professionalism absolute. “Because timing is everything. We cannot just leak this to a journalist. We need to make sure it detonates where it hurts the most, where the maximum number of influential people hear it simultaneously. At the Annual Founders’ Gala next month, when every shareholder, every political figure, and every rival will be watching the Von Carter heir give a speech. Imagine it, Avery—one press of a button, piped through the main hall speakers, and the whole room hears exactly what they have done, delivered by their own voices.”

Her words painted the picture: a hall filled with power and privilege, DeLuca and Bianchi’s smug faces frozen in disbelief as their own voices became the instrument of their doom. Gasps, outrage, the world shifting beneath their feet with a violence.

I swallowed, my pulse racing, the sheer theatrical perfection of the plan appealing to the deepest, most ruthless part of my personality. “A public execution.”

“Exactly. A controlled detonation of truth that will end them faster and more completely than any private legal battle.”

I leaned back, running a trembling hand over my face. For a moment, I closed my eyes, letting the savage images swirl—DeLuca’s sneer wiped away, Bianchi’s arrogance shattered, their entire legacy consumed by fire.

This was not justice. It was a cold, necessary vengeance that would safeguard my family’s name.

When I opened my eyes, they burned with a focused, chilling light. I met Marissa’s gaze, my voice steady, stripped of all doubt. “Then let us do it. Let us make sure they never breathe easy again. Let us make them wish my father had eliminated them.”

A slow, satisfied smile, the first hint of genuine relief I had seen, spread across her face. “That is the Avery I was waiting for. Now, we plan the detonation sequence.”

The clock ticked past midnight as we laid out the plan—every step, every legal safeguard, every way to ensure the truth could not be buried by their lawyers. Marissa spoke with the precision of a general directing an invasion, her fingers moving across the files with ruthless, practiced efficiency.

Purpose. DeLuca and Bianchi thought they could turn the world against the Von Carters, that they could use our name, our blood, and our pride as their weapon against us.

They had no idea what kind of storm they had awakened, no concept of the total warfare we were capable of waging. And now, with Marissa’s hydrogen bomb, the storm had teeth.

Marissa’s office was thick with tension, as though the air itself understood the gravity of the decision we had made. Papers littered her mahogany desk—contracts, falsified statements, damning photographs—and in the center of it all, that small silver flash drive gleamed like a final, unsheathed blade.

Marissa stood with her arms folded, sharp and unyielding. “The board has confirmed it,” she said, her voice dropping the late hour formality. “You will be the one to address tomorrow’s emergency shareholder conference. We are going preemptive, Avery. We do not wait for the gala. We strike now, with the truth.”

I inhaled, my jaw tightening in acceptance. “So, it falls to me to deliver the killing blow.”

Her lips curved, not quite a smile, but a glint of acknowledgment. “Who else could carry it? You are a Von Carter. You do not just represent the company—you are the company. You will embody the fury of the name they tried to sully.”

I ran my fingers over the edge of the desk, staring at the mountain of evidence that was about to be unleashed. “And when it is over…?”

Marissa’s eyes flickered with the glint of satisfaction. “When it is over, DeLuca and Bianchi will never walk into another boardroom without hearing their sins echo behind them. Tomorrow is not just exposure, Avery. It is an execution of their entire professional life. It is the end of their story.”

The word sat between us like a flame. Execution.

I let it burn in silence before giving a curt, final nod. “You need to be sharp,” she continued, her tone softening just enough to sound like a professional warning, not a friend’s concern.

“Go back to your hotel. Rest. You have twelve hours to prepare the performance of your life. Tomorrow morning, the Von Carters write history, and their names are erased.”

I allowed myself a humorless chuckle, the sound brittle in the silent room. “You make it sound like a war.”

Her gaze did not waver. “It is, Avery. A war for the soul of the company.”

The hotel room was quiet when I walked in, far too quiet for the inferno that pulsed beneath my skin. I dropped my bag on the bedspread, papers and documents spilling out like fallen leaves, and sat down at the edge of the mattress.

For a long moment, I stared at my phone, my thumb hovering over one name. Tiffany.

The one person I was not supposed to call, the one person whose presence I could not afford to admit I needed, the one person I could not stop thinking about. I dialed before my better judgment, my father’s counsel, or Marissa’s strategic professionalism could stop me.

The line rang once. Twice. Each ring felt like a transgression.

And then—her voice. Low, soft, a touch rough, as though I had pulled her out of a deep sleep or a world she had kept closed off.

“Avery?”

The sound of my name on her lips—not the cold, professional address, but that intimate inquiry—broke something loose inside me. I closed my eyes, my throat tightening with a sudden vulnerability.

“Yeah. It is me.”

There was a pause, a moment of disorientation on her end, then a sigh, heavy with implication. “Do you realize what time it is, Avery? You are in a time zone four hours ahead of me.”

“I know.” My voice cracked into something half a whisper, half a confession I had not intended to make. “I just… needed to hear you.”

There was a pause, then a quiet sigh. “You needed me? At this hour?”

A small, bitter, self-deprecating laugh escaped me. “More than I care to admit to my lawyer, or my father, or myself.”

I imagined her then—sitting up in bed, maybe by a small lamp, glasses off, hair falling around her shoulders, the professional professor dissolving into the woman I knew. The thought eased something jagged in my chest.

“What is going on, Avery?” she asked, her voice lower, coaxing me to surrender the truth. “Tell me.”

“Nothing,” I lied, the habit ingrained and unavoidable. “Office work. Meetings. Too many voices. Too much noise about war and ruin. And then… nothing. Sudden, total silence. I did not want to be alone in it tonight.”

She exhaled, as though weighing every one of my evasive words against the tremor in my tone. “You are not usually the type to admit you do not want to be alone, Avery Von Carter. You are built for solitude.”

“Maybe not,” I murmured, accepting the truth of her observation. “But with you… I do not mind admitting the weakness.”

Her silence stretched, heavy, and I swore I could feel her heartbeat even through the thousands of miles of phone line. Then, softly—

“Avery… stop.”

“Do not stop me,” I said, my voice rougher, desperate to hold onto the connection. “I know I should not call you like this. I know I should not need you like this. But I do. Tomorrow is the hardest day of my life, and I needed you to anchor me.”

There was a sharp, audible inhale on her end, followed by words that trembled with the kind of truth people try to hide. “You do not know what you are doing to me by calling me like this, Avery.”

I pressed my palm to my eyes, forcing a shaky laugh. “Maybe I do. Maybe I do not. But I know this: hearing your voice right now is the only thing keeping me steady enough to face the boardroom tomorrow.”

For a moment, I thought she might end the call, cut off the dangerous intimacy. But instead, her voice came back, hushed and intimate, laced with an undeniable concern.

“You sound tired. Worn down. Like you have not slept in days.”

“I am,” my words were barely audible, a profound admission. “But then you speak, and it feels like I can breathe again. Like the air is not poisoned.”

Her breathing changed—quicker, uneven. A reaction, not a defense. “You cannot just say things like that to me, Avery.”

“Why not?” I whispered. “It is the absolute truth.”

Another silence. Then, in a voice so fragile I almost did not recognize it, stripped of all her academic armor, she said, “Do you ever realize how much power you have over me when you drop the armor like that?”

The words hit like a brutal mixture of fire and ice. My chest ached with the weight of the responsibility and the savage satisfaction.

“If I do, Tiffany, I swear I would never use it to hurt you. Never. All I want… is to be near you. Even like this.”

On the other end, I heard the faintest sound of a laugh. It was not mocking—it was soft, broken, edged with painful longing.

“God, Avery… you are impossible.”

“Maybe.” A smile finally tugged at my lips, but it was heavy, weighted with truth.

“But I’m yours, whether you want me or not. And you are mine.”

Her breath caught, a sharp, tiny gasp. “Don’t say that.”

“I already did. And I meant it.”

Silence again. Not the silence of walls and distance, but the silence of hearts caught between confession and fear of consequence.

Finally, she whispered, the words faint, “Stay with me. On the line. Don’t hang up yet.”

I closed my eyes, letting her voice wrap around me like warmth against the cold of my office. “I wasn’t planning to, Tesoro.”

We stayed. Neither of us said much after that, just breathing together across the distance, the line alive with every unspoken word and shared silence.

In that forbidden moment, I realized—tomorrow might be the end of DeLuca and Bianchi. But tonight, for this desperate hour, Tiffany was my salvation.

I leaned back on the hotel bed, phone pressed to my ear, and decided to push, to pull her closer by tearing down her defenses. “So… how is everything going at the university? How is everything without me nearby, distracting you?”

There was a pause, followed by the sound of her exhaling. A sigh—heavy, deliberate.

“Do you really want to hear, Avery?” she asked, already knowing the risk of her answer.

“Mmm hmm…” I hummed, letting the low sound linger on the line, a provocation.

I caught it—the sharp hitch in her breath, the tiny silence that followed, an electrical shock across the line. “You’re doing it again,” she said, her voice lower, as though she tried to scold me but could not keep the severity in her tone.

I smirked, though she could not see me. “Doing what, Professor?”

“This… humming,” she muttered.

The way she said it—like the word burned her tongue—made me want to hum again, louder, more brazen. “And I hate it when you do,” she added, so quiet I almost thought I imagined the intensity.

That one slipped out of her. The raw emotion. I knew it.

My chest tightened, and I chuckled. “But still you ask me not to, even though you hate it.”

“Yes,” she said, like she had to push the word out before she lost her nerve. “Because every time you do that, Avery, it inspires me to do something that is not a good, professional thing to do.”

I stilled, savoring the way her voice dropped, the way she sounded caught between a confession and rigid restraint. My lips curved into a wicked grin.

“Things like what, Professor Rose? Tell me the details.”

Silence. For a heartbeat, I thought she might hang up and terminate the risk. And then, her voice came through, trembling with the effort of control.

“I… I cannot,” she whispered. “I cannot say that when I am still in professor mode.”

That broke me—I laughed, a bright, triumphant sound. “Oh my God. You really just said that. That you have modes.”

I could hear her rolling her eyes on the other side of the line, feeling the shame of her slip. She groaned, “Yes, yes, laugh at me, Ms. Carter. I can feel you laughing at my very professional organizational structure.”

“Oh no, Professor,” I teased, letting the words drawl. “I can feel you rolling your eyes at me. Which is a good sign. It means you are focused entirely on me.”

The silence that followed was charged. Alive.

Like static before lightning strikes. That was when it hit me with force—all it had taken was a hum.

One small, meaningless sound. She unraveled, admitted things I never thought she would let slip.

Tiffany Rose—the untouchable intellectual—sounded human, vulnerable, and mine. That was it.

The crack. My chance to cement the hold I had on her heart before I went to war.

I let out a challenging chuckle. “And yet… you do want to, do you not? You want to do all those unprofessional things.”

“Stop it,” she said, but I could hear it—the way her breathing hitched and changed, uneven now, confirming my victory.

“You know,” I continued, pushing harder, pressing the advantage, “you could just admit it. That all it takes is a little hum and suddenly, Ms. Rose wants to drop the title and do all sorts of wonderfully bad things with me.”

“Avery!” She cut me off, a gasp of surrender, her control fracturing. “Enough. Don’t push me.”

I froze at the force in her voice, but only for a second. I knew she was blushing, burning hot with the mental images I gave her.

I felt it, even through the transatlantic phone line. “You’re blushing, aren’t you?” I teased, my voice dropping, more seductive, more assured. “God, I wish I could see your face right now.”

Silence. A silence that was its own admission. She did not deny it.

Which meant I was right. And that silence was the most intoxicating thing I had ever heard.

Finally, she spoke, her tone clipped, trying to rebuild her mask. “You are impossible.”

“And yet,” I whispered into the receiver, “you are still here. Still listening. Still… tempted beyond your better judgment.”

She drew in a sharp breath. I heard it. Felt it.

For a dizzying second, I thought she might say it—might finally confess what I had always known but never heard aloud. Instead, her voice dropped, quiet but firm, a final boundary.

“I cannot. Not now. Not like this. You don’t know what you are asking for, Avery. I will not have this conversation tonight.”

I closed my eyes, smiling into the darkness of my hotel room, already planning the next advance. “Oh, Tiffany… I think I do. And one day, you are going to be the one to tell me the details.”

I did not let her silence win. Not this time.

“You know, Tiffany,” I drawled, letting her name linger a little too long, drawing out the final surrender, “you are terrible at lying to me.”

“I am not lying, Avery.” Her retort came fast, defensive, but weak.

I smirked into the phone, rolling onto my side, curling around the sound of her voice. “Oh really? Then explain the way your voice goes tight and quiet whenever you try to say my name with authority.”

“Avery…” she warned, but the effect was ruined by the tremor in her tone.

“There it is again,” I whispered, grinning. “Say it one more time. Go on. Say my name.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Come on,” I teased, dragging the words out. “One little Avery. For me. To anchor me for tomorrow.”

There was a pause, then a sharp exhale. “You’re insufferable, Ms. Carter.”

“And yet… you love it.”

She groaned, low enough I almost missed it. “I should hang up right now. I have early classes.”

“You won’t,” I shot back without hesitation, knowing the certainty of my hold. Her silence told me I was right. Again.

So I leaned into the final, defining moment. “You want to know why you won’t hang up?”

“No,” she said. Too quickly.

“It is because you love hearing me tease you. You crave the chase. You crave the release.”

“Avery!” she snapped, but it sounded like a plea for mercy than a command for me to stop.

I chuckled, lowering my voice to a dangerous, intimate level. “And because when I am not around, you miss me. You miss me so bad you will risk your job to hear my voice past midnight.”

“…you’re imagining things.” The denial was too slow, too weak.

I laughed, shaking my head. “Oh, Tiffany. You could roll your eyes right now, and I would still know the truth. You would risk everything for a few more minutes.”

I heard the faint sound on the other end—not words, but a stifled laugh she tried to bite back, a sound of frustrated surrender. That slip made my chest warm in a way no victory over DeLuca or Bianchi ever could.

“There,” I said, gently. “That laugh. You cannot hide that from me, Professor. That is the sound of you losing the battle.”

“God, you are impossible.” Her voice softened, the sharp edges of her defense dulled by exhaustion and longing.

“And still,” I murmured, “you are still here. Talking to me. Letting me drag you into places you swore you would never go.”

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. Just breathing. Just silence stretched so tight it felt like a confession.

Finally, she broke it, her voice quiet but playful, the battle over, the truce declared. “You know, one of these days, your recklessness is going to catch up with you, Avery. It is going to cost you.”

I smiled into the phone, fully accepting the risk. “Maybe. But until then? I will keep chasing you with it. I will keep fighting for what I want.”

For the first time that night, she did not argue. The hotel room was quiet except for the faint hum of the city, but her voice—God, her voice—was louder than all of it in my head.

She had gone silent again, not the stiff silence of annoyance, but the heavy kind, thick with things she held back. I could almost picture her—phone pressed to her ear, eyes closed, lips parted like she debated whether to let something slip.

I broke the quiet with a soft murmur. “You are still awake. And I can hear you thinking.”

“I should not be.” Her voice was hushed, guilty, confessing her surrender to exhaustion.

“Then hang up,” I teased, giving her the easy out I knew she would not take.

Her answer was immediate, devoid of debate. “No.”

A smile tugged at my lips, deeper. “Why not?”

“Because…” She trailed off, exhaling sharply through the receiver. “Because you make it too easy to forget everything else. You make me forget the rules.”

Her words sank into me, low and heavy, and I shut my eyes, pressing my palm over them. “Forget what, Tiffany? Be specific.”

There was a pause. Then, so soft I barely caught it: “Boundaries. Distance. Sense. And the terrifying way I feel about you.”

I smirked, though my chest ached. “You have thought about crossing them. And we have already crossed it, in Florence. I hope you remember calling my name. Well, I would be doing the same. After all, I also want to hear your voice when you call my name with the same intensity. Averyyyy…” I whispered the sound of my name, letting it drag out.

“Avery…” My name slipped out of her like a warning, shaky and desperate, laced with the memory of the night in Florence.

“Tell me I am wrong,” I whispered. “Just once. Say I am imagining the way you feel about me.”

Silence. No denial. No shield. Just silence, thick with shared history and longing.

I chuckled. “That is what I thought, Professor.”

“You are impossible,” she muttered, but her voice cracked, betraying her complete surrender.

“And still,” I said, “you are still here. With me. Long past midnight, defying every single one of your rules.”

Her breath caught. And then—before she could stop herself—she let it slip: “Do you know how many nights I have… wanted to tell you…”

My heart kicked hard in my chest. “Wanted to tell me what?”

She froze. I could feel it, the way she stopped breathing for half a beat. Then—snapping the door shut on her emotions—she said, “Nothing. Forget it, Avery. I am tired.”

I sat up, jaw tight, willing her to finish. “Tiffany, you started it—”

“No, Avery. I should not say that. It is unprofessional and reckless.”

Her voice was steady, but I knew. I knew she was rattled. That she had almost given me everything—her love, her fear, her future.

I smiled to myself, even as my chest ached with restraint. “One day,” I murmured, a vow whispered over the wire, “you are going to finish that sentence. And when you do… I will already know the ending.”

She gave a shaky laugh, the kind that sounded like surrender and defiance tangled together. “You are the most reckless person I have ever met.”

“And you love it. That is why you are still talking to me.”

Her sigh was long, soft, almost tender. “God help me… maybe I do.”

I chuckled, closing my eyes, victory absolute. “Then maybe stop fighting it.”

“I cannot.” Her whisper was raw, stripped of all her professor’s armor. “You do not understand what happens if I let myself…” She cut off, biting the words back, but the feeling was transmitted.

My throat tightened. “If you let yourself what, Tiffany?”

“Don’t make me say it,” she whispered, her voice laced with finality.

“You already did. Hours ago.”

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. Just breathing. Just silence stretched so tight it felt like a confession.

In the faintest, most fragile voice I had ever heard from her, she said, “Goodnight, Avery. Be careful tomorrow.”

I smiled, aching but alive, anchored to her voice and ready for the war. “Sweet dreams, Tiffany. I will call you when the dust settles.”

The line clicked, but the sound of her voice lingered, a protective warmth against the cold morning that awaited me.