Page 37 of Kingpin's Secret Baby

And the question is so simple, so direct, but it slams into me like a freight train. Because I don’t know. I never have.

My mother's careful manipulations surface first: how she forged me into a weapon against the Warwicks, feeding me stories of their cruelty until hate flowed as naturally as breath. Then my brother's betrayal- deeming me something to be fixed, shipped overseas like damaged goods he could discard and forget.

I feel like I’m suffocating under the weight of Piers’s gaze. I look away, staring out at the endless stretch of mountains, and something unexpected clicks into place.

For once, there are no walls to cage me in. No legacy to protect. No throne to fight for. No family to please. Everything that had once held me together- my mother’s whispered ambitions, my father’s inevitable dismissal, Achilles’s expectations- has dissolved like smoke in this thin alpine air.

No one is telling mewhoI have to be.

No one is telling me whonotto be.

The realization is unsettling in its weightlessness.

I don’t have an empire anymore, but maybe, for the first time, I have... freedom.

The thought is terrifying.

And I have no idea what to do with that.

“Why do you care so much?” The question tears out of me, raw and unguarded. “After everything I did, everything I tried to do to you- why are you still here?”

His green eyes seize mine, relentless. Everything in me screams to break contact, but I stand my ground, pinned by that emerald fire.

“How have you not figured that out yet?” he asks softly.

My heart thunders in my chest. I want to run, to hide from the raw sincerity in his eyes. But where can I go? We're alone up here, miles from anywhere. There’s nowhere to escape, no distractions to drown in. Just me, him, and this question I can’t answer.

“I-” I stare down at my half-eaten breakfast, my appetite deserting me. “I don't know what I want.”

Piers reaches a hand across the table, “that's okay,” his fingers brushing mine. “I'm happy to wait as long as you need while you figure it out.”

“And if I never do?”

“Then we'll figure something else out.” His thumb traces circles on my palm. “Together.”

Piers gestures to my coffee, which I've been clutching like a lifeline. “You haven't asked for anything stronger,” he observes.

I almost laugh at how transparent I must be to him. “I've thought about it every minute,” I admit. “Every second. God, even the wine the chef left yesterday... I crave it.” The confession settles in my stomach like lead.

“That's because addiction is a sickness, not a personality flaw,” Piers says quietly. “It'll take time, but-”

“But I can't want it forever?” I interrupt bitterly.

His eyes catch mine. “No. But you can want something else more.”

I think about that, about his earlier question of what I want for my future. About the weight that lifted from my shoulders when he said I could take my time figuring it out. About how, impossibly, wonderfully, he keeps choosing to be here with me.

My hands shake a little as I set down my coffee cup. “When I'm drinking, everything feels... muted. Easier to handle. But last night-” Heat rises to my cheeks, but I push through. “Last night I felt everything. And it wasn't terrible.”

“No,” Piers agrees, his voice rough. “It wasn't terrible at all.”

I take a deep breath of mountain air, letting it fill my lungs. “I think... I think I'd like to feel things again. Even the hard things. I just don't know if I'm strong enough.”

“You are,” he says simply. “But you don't have to be strong alone anymore.”

The faith in his voice makes my throat tight. I remember all the times I sat alone in Wesley Hall, drinking to dull the pain of isolation, of failure, of loss. But I'mnotalone anymore.

I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. Piers seems to understand anyway. He pushes back from the table and holds out his hand.

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