Page 36 of Knot Their Safe Haven
Real or imagined, Alessandro had reminded me of something I'd almost forgotten.
Once upon a time, someone had seen me clearly and wanted me anyway.
No conditions. No hesitation. No needing more time.
Just want, pure and simple and unashamed.
I wondered if that eighteen-year-old boy would be disappointed in the woman I'd become—successful and powerful but ultimately alone, surrounded by men who loved me but not enough to claim me.
"One day, you're going to stop running from what you want."
The water ran cold before I finally stepped out, and I stood naked in front of the mirror, cataloging every sign of age Knox had been too cowardly to acknowledge. The silver threads in my purple hair. The fine lines around my eyes. The way my body, despite all the money spent maintaining it, showed the inevitable march of time.
Almost forty.
Almost past my expiration date.
Almost done waiting.
Almost.
But not quite.
Not yet.
Because somewhere in the city, a ghost with green eyes might be more than imagination.
And may I dare envision that twinkle opportunity was worth one more dance.
THE WEIGHT OF WATER
~VELVET~
The traffic hadn't moved in twenty-three minutes.
Time ticking away while I continued to stare at the same license plate—BGK-4729—while my life continued its spectacular unraveling. The businessman in the car next to mine had given up all pretense of productivity, his head tilted back against the headrest in defeat. Behind me, someone laid on their horn for the seventh time, as if that would magically part the sea of metal and frustration clogging the downtown core.
Late. Again.
Marina would be fielding calls, making excuses, rescheduling meetings I had no intention of attending anyway. This whole week had been nothing but dodged responsibilities and avoided confrontations, and honestly? I was running out of energy to care.
My phone screen showed seventeen missed calls. Knox had given up after Tuesday, but Malcolm was persistent—twelve attempts since Monday morning. Adyani had shifted to texts after I'd rejected three flower deliveries, each message a variation of concern wrapped in poetry I couldn't bear to read.
"Qalbi, silence is not strength. It is fear wearing the mask of control."
Delete.
"The roses will keep coming until you remember you deserve beauty."
Delete.
"I'm booking a flight. This has gone on long enough."
That one I'd actually responded to: "Don't."
One word, but it had been enough to buy me a few more days of isolation. She'd respect the boundary, for now. They all would. That was the benefit of training your lovers to accept distance—they recognized when you needed space, even if they didn't understand why.
The suite had become my fortress this week. New passcodes that no one knew. Biometric locks reprogrammed to reject the stored prints I'd given them in moments of weakness. Even the emergency override Knox had insisted on—gone.
