Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
It’s chaos.
Beautiful, safe chaos.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself believe we’re going to be okay.
Later that night, we’re at my apartment. I haven’t been here in ages.
We’re curled on the couch under a knit blanket, the fire casting flickering shadows on the wall. I’m tucked against Gage’s side, our fingers laced. Neither of us has said much since we got back.
Not because we don’t have anything to say.
But because we’re still soaking in the silence. The peace.
“So…” I murmur, glancing up at him. “What now?”
He turns to look at me, his eyes softer than I’ve ever seen.
“Now?” He grins. “Now we live.”
“Live?”
“Yeah. You and me. Whatever that looks like. No more secrets. No more running. I just want a life with you, Riv.”
Tears sting my eyes again. “You mean that?”
“With everything I am.”
He leans in and kisses me again, slow and tender and full of all the promises we haven’t said out loud yet.
And in that kiss, I feel it—
The future.
A messy, beautiful, love-filled future that starts right here… on this couch… wrapped in warmth and hope and him.
And I know—
I’ve finally come home.
FORTY-SIX
RIVER
There’s something poetic about sitting at my desk in the same cubicle that, only a few weeks ago, I had considered my personal hell.
The way the sunlight slices through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting warm golden bars across the open floorplan, makes NovaPlay’s office look like something out of an architectural magazine. But it’s not the lighting that makes it feel different today.
It’s everything else.
The truth is out.
Helena has been arrested. Publicly. Loudly. Just the way she liked things—only this time, she wasn’t the one pulling the strings. The headlines were impossible to ignore: “Gaming Exec Behind Developer Deaths, Digital Crimes.” Her smug mugshot splashed across tech blogs and industry newsfeeds like poetic justice.
Now we’re back at work, and the fallout is still raining down.
“I still can’t believe it was her,” whispers one developer behind me.
“I mean, yeah, she was cold,” another adds, “but murder?”
I sip my coffee slowly, letting the voices wash over me. No one’s whispering about me today. For the first time in… forever.
My inbox is full of polite messages from HR and Legal, most asking for my cooperation or sending formal apologies. I haven’t answered any of them yet. I don’t need a corporate apology. What I needed was Gage—and I got him.
And today, the world is watching the rest of the dominos fall.
“Holy shit,” someone mutters near the breakroom.
I look up just in time to see two uniformed police officers walking through the glass doors at reception.
The whole office goes still.
Like someone pressed pause on a video game mid-action.
“Is that…?”
“Tasha,” I murmur under my breath, rising from my desk.
She’s standing near her desk, spine straight, lips parted slightly in surprise as the officers approach. She doesn't resist—doesn’t flinch—but there’s a flicker of disbelief in her eyes as they read her rights and place her in handcuffs.
My heart thuds.
I knew this part was coming. Gage had warned me. Helena’s confession implicated multiple people—Tasha among them. She had been the internal eyes and ears, planting stories, manipulating the pipeline to isolate me, feeding Helena my movements. And worst of all, she helped erase digital breadcrumbs after the murders.
She turns her head just as the officers lead her toward the exit, and for one breathless moment, our eyes meet.
I don’t look away.
She does.
Whispers fill the silence again, growing louder.
“Wait—Tasha?!”
“She was in on it?”
“Is this some kind of movie?!”
It feels surreal.
Not triumphant. Just… complete.
Like a wound closing.
I return to my desk, heart racing, hands shaking slightly. Gage is out today—handling a few last meetings with Maddox Security and finalizing statements for the legal team. I had offered to come with him, but he kissed my forehead and said, “I think this time, you deserve to be the one walking through those doors proud.”
He was right.
And it turns out… I am.
“River?”
I glance up to see two of my coworkers—Justin and Marla—lingering awkwardly near my desk.
Justin clears his throat. “We, uh… just wanted to say we’re sorry.”
Marla nods quickly. “For everything. For believing that crap about you and spreading rumors. We thought—well, we were wrong. Really wrong.”
Justin rubs the back of his neck. “Turns out the golden boy wasn’t so golden after all.”
At first, I don’t know what to say. There’s a thousand responses on the tip of my tongue—sarcastic, scathing, biting.
But instead, I just say, “Thank you.”
Because I’ve already lived in that hurt. And today isn’t about clinging to it.
It’s about letting it go.
They nod and walk away, looking relieved. A few other coworkers stop by with similar sentiments throughout the morning—some more genuine than others. But none of them matter as much as the man who approaches my desk just before lunch.
Andrew.
His shoulders are slumped. His badge is no longer clipped to his belt. There’s no corporate armor left—just regret.