Cynthia had never broken a rule like this before.
The hotel room was silent, but her mind was a storm. Every nerve screamed at her to stay put, to follow Alexander's instructions. But the images, the messages, the voice—the reality of Lydia gone because someone thought she was Cynthia—had lit a fire in her chest she couldn't ignore.
She grabbed her jacket, zipped it up, and slipped out into the night. The streets were empty, the city quiet at this late hour. She kept to the shadows, moving as fast as she dared, heart hammering in her ribcage.
By the time she reached Alexander's room, the high-rise loomed above her like a monolith. Its glass walls reflected the city lights, cold and sharp. She paused, hand on the security keypad. Hesitation threatened to hold her back. But anger and grief propelled her forward.
If Alexander thought she would sit in a hotel room hiding, waiting, she would show him she was no one to be protected like a fragile object.
The lobby was deserted. She bypassed the front desk and took the elevator up, pressing the penthouse floor button. The ride was excruciatingly slow. Each tick of the floor indicator echoed in her chest.
When the doors opened, she stepped out into the quiet hallway. She paused. Alexander's penthouse door was slightly ajar.
Her stomach clenched.
She had no plan. No warning. She only knew she needed answers.
She stepped inside.
The apartment was dimly lit, shadows stretching across the sleek furniture. The air smelled faintly of coffee and leather—Alexander.
And he was there.
Sitting in the living room, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He hadn't noticed her yet.
Cynthia's breath caught. She had expected anger, shouting, perhaps a threat. Instead… he looked broken. Vulnerable. Human in a way he never allowed anyone to see.
"Alexander."
He jerked upright. His eyes were sharp immediately, scanning the room, landing on her.
"Cynthia?" His voice was cautious, controlled, but not his usual icy tone.
"I know," she said, stepping closer, voice shaking but firm. "I know about Lydia."
The muscles along his jaw tightened. He got up and moved toward her, slow, deliberate, each step carrying tension and warning.
"You shouldn't be here," he said, voice low, dangerous.
"I couldn't stay at the hotel. I couldn't wait any longer." She swallowed hard. "I got… the messages. The pictures."
Alexander froze, his expression darkening.
"You have to understand," she continued, tears prickling, "I couldn't just sit there and do nothing. And you didn't tell me why. You didn't tell me the truth."
He ran a hand through his hair, jaw clenched. "Cynthia…"
"No. You will tell me." Her voice rose slightly, trembling with anger and fear. "Now."
He stared at her, his cold, calculating eyes narrowing, then softened slightly, as if the weight of her words struck a chord he hadn't expected.
She stepped closer, daring to bridge the distance he had always kept between them. "Why didn't you tell me the truth about the gang? About the danger? About Lydia?"
Alexander exhaled, slow and heavy. "Because I wanted to keep you safe."
"I wasn't safe!" Cynthia shouted, stepping closer. "She died because someone thought she was me! I should be dead right now!"
He flinched, as if struck. For a moment, no words passed between them, just the sound of her ragged breathing and the hum of the city below.
"I—" Alexander began, voice low, tight, trembling almost imperceptibly. "I couldn't risk you being involved. Every step I took, I thought I was protecting you. And I thought… if I kept you ignorant, you'd survive."
Cynthia's eyes filled with tears. "Survive? You sent me to a hotel while Lydia… while she—" She swallowed hard, fighting the sobs that wanted to escape.
"I know." His voice was quieter now, more human than she'd ever heard.
Alexander's fists clenched at his sides. His voice grew steady, cold again, but with an undercurrent of something Cynthia had never heard before: guilt, sorrow, determination.
"I will make sure no one else dies because of me. Because of them. Because of this. I swear it."
Cynthia's heart raced. She wanted to be angry at him, wanted to hate him for withholding the truth, but the fear, the grief, and the raw intensity of his presence made her pause.
"You should've told me," she said quietly, finally catching her breath. "You think keeping me in the dark protects me, but all it did was make me powerless."
He stared at her. The cold mask he always wore seemed to flicker for just a second. Then it snapped back.
"You're not powerless," he said, voice low and precise. "Not now. Not ever. And I don't care if you think you can handle it. You'll do exactly as I say from here on. Until this is over, I mean it."
Cynthia swallowed, nodding slowly. She could see the fire behind his eyes, the kind that had kept him alive in situations most people would never survive. The kind of fire that had made the gang fear him.
"I won't run," she whispered. "I want to understand. I want to help. If there's a chance—any chance—I want to stop this from happening to anyone else."
Alexander's eyes narrowed. He studied her for a long, tense moment. Then, finally, he exhaled and motioned toward the couch.
"Sit," he said. "You need to hear everything. From the beginning. And you need to know the rules. Nothing leaves this room. No calls. No messages. No walking alone. Not until I say so."
Cynthia sat, her hands clutching the edge of the cushion. She felt the gravity of the moment, the weight of Lydia's death pressing down on them both.
Alexander moved to the window and stared out over the city, jaw tight. "The gang thinks I'm finished. That I'm vulnerable.
He turned back to her, expression sharper than ice. "They're wrong. But that doesn't mean I can underestimate them. And it doesn't mean I can protect you from them alone."
Cynthia's stomach churned, but she met his gaze. "Then we do it together," she said softly but firmly. "I'm not hiding anymore. I'm not leaving. If this is dangerous… then let me stand in it with you."
He studied her for a long, measured moment. Finally, he exhaled and nodded, almost imperceptibly.
"Fine," he said. "But you follow my instructions, exactly. No improvising. One wrong move and—"
"I know," she interrupted, voice steady. "I won't let them hurt anyone else."
For the first time, the tension in the room shifted. Not entirely gone. The danger outside still loomed, massive and unseen, like a storm waiting to crash down. But inside, in the dim penthouse at midnight, Alexander voss and Cynthia brooks were no longer separated by secrets.
And for the first time, Cynthia felt like she might survive this.