Chapter Thirty-Two — Part One
(Amira Rivera — first person)
The problem with hitting bottom is that it keeps changing shape.
One day it's a number—how much money you have left, how many bills you can postpone without consequences. The next it's a room—quiet, too clean, like it's already bracing for you to leave it. And then there are the moments when it's a person—someone you want badly enough that wanting them feels like self-harm.
I stopped checking my bank app.
That was my first concession to survival.
Instead, I started checking time. How many days until the hearing. How many hours until the next headline. How many minutes I could go without thinking about Julian before my body betrayed me with memory.
The girls came over again, no announcement, no planning—just instinct. Tasha with grocery bags. Janelle with calm eyes and a steady voice. Kiera loud enough to scare the quiet away. Marisol already on her phone, working angles.
"You look thinner," Kiera said, hugging me too tight. "I don't like it."
"I'm stressed," I said. "And broke."
"Temporary," Tasha said firmly, setting food on the counter. "Both."
We ate together like it was ritual. Nothing fancy. Just grounding. Janelle watched me the way she always did—like she could tell when I was lying to myself.
"You haven't slept," she said.
"I nap."
"That's not sleep."
Marisol closed her laptop. "Margaret Ellis is coordinating witness statements. Not lies, exactly—context. Framing."
I exhaled slowly. "Of course she is."
"She's pitching it as a 'pattern of inappropriate conduct,'" Marisol continued. "Nothing illegal. Just enough to poison the room."
Kiera scoffed. "Old women love a morality committee."
"Careful," Janelle said. "They're effective."
I leaned back in my chair, fingers curled tight around my mug. "What do we do?"
They all looked at me.
That was new. Not pity. Not panic. Expectation.
"We buy time," Marisol said. "Enough to get discovery. Enough to find cracks."
"With what money?" I asked.
Tasha didn't hesitate. "We pool."
"No," I said immediately. "I'm not—"
"We're not asking permission," Kiera cut in. "We're investing."
Janelle nodded. "You don't have to like it. Just don't insult us by refusing help."
I swallowed. The pride burned hot, but the fear burned hotter.
"Okay," I said quietly. "But I pay you back."
Kiera grinned. "With interest."
Later, when they left, the apartment felt heavier—but less hollow. I cleaned until my hands ached, scrubbing surfaces that didn't need it, just to feel like I was doing something measurable.
My phone buzzed while I was wiping the counter.
Julian.
I stared at the name until it blurred.
Julian:
I need to see you.
I typed, erased, typed again.
Me:
This isn't a good idea.
The reply came fast.
Julian:
I don't care.
I laughed once, sharp. Of course you don't.
He showed up anyway, like gravity had finally won.
He looked worse—tired in a way that went beyond sleep. His suit was rumpled, tie abandoned, eyes dark with something I recognized too well: fixation.
"You shouldn't be here," I said, opening the door.
"You keep saying that," he replied. "And I keep coming."
He stepped inside, scanning the space like he was checking for damage. "You're not eating."
"I ate."
"Tonight."
"I ate tonight."
He watched me the way he always did when he didn't believe me. The silence between us thickened, familiar and dangerous.
"They're organizing witnesses," he said.
"I know."
"And you're still pushing me away."
"I'm still choosing myself."
He moved closer, voice dropping. "I can help."
"With what?" I asked. "Money I won't take? Protection you can't guarantee?"
He reached for me, stopped himself, hands fisting at his sides. "You don't trust me anymore."
"I trust you," I said softly. "I don't trust the situation you're trapped in."
That hurt him more than anger would have.
The desire was there—coiled, alive, undeniable. I felt it in the way his gaze lingered, the way his breathing changed when I stepped closer despite myself.
"You're cruel," he murmured.
"I'm careful," I corrected.
His mouth curved into something almost reverent. "You're becoming something else."
"Good," I said. "Because what I was wasn't enough."
We stood there, close but untouched, the tension buzzing like a live wire. It would've been easy to fall into old patterns—to let the heat swallow the fear.
I didn't.
He exhaled slowly, nodding once like he'd lost something. "I'll handle my side," he said again.
"Do that," I replied. "And stay out of mine."
When he left, the ache followed him—but it didn't break me.
I locked the door, leaned back against it, and closed my eyes.
Bare hands, I thought.
No shield. No safety net. Just me, my choices, and whatever came next.
Somewhere deep inside, beneath the fear and the want, something steadied.
If Cassandra wanted to see how far I could be pushed—
She was about to find out.
Chapter Thirty-Two — Part Two
Fault Lines
(Amira Rivera — first person)
It wasn't supposed to happen... especially like this...
I told myself that over and over — even as I let him pull me close, even as the careful distance I'd been practicing dissolved the moment his hands found me like they always did, like they'd been waiting.
We didn't plan it. That was the problem.
He showed up soaked from the rain, jacket abandoned somewhere between the door and the couch, eyes dark with the kind of urgency that made my chest tighten before he ever touched me.
"I tried not to come," he said.
"I know," I replied — and didn't move away.
The kiss was all the things I'd been denying myself: familiar, overwhelming, charged with everything unsaid. I let it happen. Let myself lean into the heat, the gravity, the relief of being wanted without conditions for just a moment.
It escalated fast — too fast for caution, too fast for strategy. The room shrank around us, the world narrowing to breath and urgency and the way my resolve cracked under the weight of how badly I missed him.
And then—
"Amira?!"
The sound of my name cut through the room like a siren.
We froze.
Julian turned first. I didn't need to look to know who it was. I knew Tasha's voice the way you know weather before it breaks.
"Oh my God," she said.
I twisted around just in time to see her standing in the doorway, grocery bag dangling from one hand, expression caught somewhere between shock, fury, and secondhand embarrassment.
Julian swore under his breath.
Tasha didn't yell. That was worse.
"I leave you alone for one hour," she said slowly, "and I walk into… whatever the hell this is?"
I scrambled back, grabbing the nearest thing that looked like dignity. Julian stepped away, jaw tight, eyes already shuttering — the executive mask sliding back into place like muscle memory.
"I should go," he said.
"Yes," Tasha replied flatly. "You should."
He hesitated — looked at me like he wanted to say something — then left without another word, the door closing far too softly behind him.
The silence that followed was brutal.
Tasha dropped the groceries on the counter and crossed her arms.
"Explain," she said.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
"I messed up."
She laughed — sharp, incredulous. "That's what we're calling this now?"
"Tash—"
"No." She held up a hand. "No. You don't get to 'Tash' me. Not when you're letting him keep walking in here like this is a hotel and not the middle of your life imploding."
I sank onto the couch, face burning. "I know. I do. I just—"
"You just love him," she finished. "I get it. But loving him doesn't mean letting him wreck you over and over."
I pressed my palms to my eyes. "I'm trying to stop."
"Then why is he still here?"
I hesitated.
That was answer enough.
Tasha sighed and sat beside me, the anger softening into something more dangerous — concern. "Amira. You're being hunted. And you're inviting the bait inside."
My throat tightened. "I know."
We sat there for a beat before I spoke again, quieter this time.
"I put a tracker on him."
Her head snapped toward me. "You what?"
"I know how it sounds," I rushed. "But I needed to know where he was. When he disappeared. When things started moving without me."
Tasha stared at me, then burst out laughing — the kind that startled both of us.
"Oh my God," she said, wiping her eyes. "Your life is a mess."
"I know."
She leaned back, shaking her head. "You realize if you're doing this, you might as well go all the way."
I blinked. "That's not comforting."
"I mean it strategically," she said, smirking despite herself. "If you're already this deep, you need information, not vibes."
I snorted despite everything. "Please don't make this worse."
"I'm serious," she said — then softened. "But also? We're going to laugh about this someday. Because if we don't, we'll cry forever."
I leaned my head on her shoulder. "I hate that you walked in."
"I hate that you're hurting," she replied. "But I'm glad I did."
We sat there, the apartment finally quiet again, the echo of the interruption still hanging in the air.
"I'm losing control," I admitted.
Tasha nudged me gently. "No. You're learning where it slips."
Outside, the rain kept falling — steady, relentless.
And somewhere deep down, beneath the embarrassment and the heat and the love I couldn't erase, I knew this was the last time things would break like this without consequences.
The line had been crossed.
Next time, it would cost something.