Page 182 of Lady and the Hitman
But then I thought of what I’d gained.
I thought of my father’s hands in mine, still warm, still alive.
Of the nursery, lush and thriving again.
Of Ronan’s sculpture tucked between the gardenias.
Of the way he looked at me like I was a miracle he couldn’t quite believe was real.
I thought of the flash drive—the woman on the floor, the footage that had once gutted me.
And I remembered what he’d said when I asked if I was just another assignment.
You’re the first one I couldn’t walk away from.
The only one I gave a choice.
And the only one who ever looked at all of me—and still said yes.
I drew in a breath. “I still want to write. I just … want to write something different now.”
Ronan nodded. “Good.”
I glanced at him. “You think that’s wise?”
“I think,” he said carefully, “that it’s the first honest thing you’ve said about your career since I met you.”
I let out a soft laugh, then sobered. “I don’t even know what it would look like. What I’d say. Who I’d be saying it to.”
His hand found mine beneath the blanket. “Then let it start there. Don’t make it perfect. Just make it true.”
I squeezed his hand. “You sound like a man who’s read a lot of columnists.”
He arched a brow. “I’m a man who studies his targets.”
I gave him a look, but the grin broke through anyway.
Then, softer: “You studied me.”
He brushed his lips against my knuckles. “I loved you.”
The air caught in my lungs.
“I still do,” he added quietly.
I sat there for a beat, his words settling into the parts of me still raw. But before I could fall too far into the comfort of it, the image of the rooftop photo pushed its way back into my mind—the one that lit the match.
“Do you think …” I hesitated. “Do you think Trevor meant to hurt me?”
Ronan didn’t answer right away. His jaw shifted slightly, his body still wrapped around mine like a shield. “I think Trevor wanted to remind you that you were his to define,” he said finally. “And when he realized he couldn’t do that anymore, he decided to burn what you’d built.”
I looked up at him. “So, you think it was on purpose.”
“I think men like him don’t always know the difference between self-righteousness and sabotage.”
I swallowed. “He used to be my friend.”
His voice stayed gentle. “And sometimes clowns wear friend costumes.”
