Page 152 of Lady and the Hitman

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Hot. Messy. Relentless.

Because that dream—it wasn’t random. It wasn’t just fear or stress or my subconscious trying to process the mess.

It was truth.

Truth twisted into metaphor. Pain dressed up as prophecy.

I could become her.

The woman on the floor. The one who begged with her breath. Who bled silently into tile while he walked away.

And the nursery? It wasn’t just dying—it was already dead. My parents had been digging its grave with every missed payment, every silent plea.

I was losing everything.

Ronan.

My sense of self.

My anchor.

My past.

I hugged my knees to my chest and let the grief pull me under.

Because this wasn’t just about a man I couldn’t trust.

It was about a life that no longer made sense.

It was about realizing I didn’t know how to protect the people I loved. That I couldn’t stop what was already in motion. That I might be the one who walked straight into her own ruin, eyes wide open.

And worse?

I’d asked for it.

I’d wanted it.

Craved it.

Begged for it.

Now all I had left was a bruised heart, a dying nursery, and the echo of Ronan’s voice in my head telling me he’d never hurt me.

But he had.

Not with fists.

Not with lies.

But with omissions.

With silences.

With the truths he’d buried in folders named Lady.

I wiped my eyes, but it didn’t help.

Because I couldn’t unsee any of it.

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