Chapter 7 - The Safe House
The safe house wasn't a corporate asset; it was Nathan's personal brownstone in Lincoln Park.
The cab ride from the gallery had passed in total, heavy silence. Grace had stared out the frosted window, watching the blur of snow-covered streetlights paint lines across her face, her mind racing through every dark memory she had spent six years trying to bury. Marcus had found her because of the public book announcement. Her name, her face, her new life—it was all out there now, unprotected and exposed.
When Nathan unlocked the heavy oak front door of his brownstone, he didn't turn on the overhead lights. A single amber reading lamp cast a warm glow across exposed brick walls, leather armchairs, and towering shelves of old books that lined the walls.
"Sit," Nathan said softly, guiding her toward a deep leather sofa by the fireplace.
He walked over to a sideboard, poured two fingers of amber bourbon into a heavy glass, and handed it to her. Grace took it with both hands, her fingers still cold, taking a small sip that burned all the way down to her stomach, grounding her in the physical present.
Nathan sat down on the coffee table right in front of her knees, looking up at her with those steady, unblinking grey eyes.
"Who was he?" Nathan asked. His voice wasn't demanding; it was patient, waiting for her to be ready.
Grace stared down at the amber liquid in her glass, her thumb tracing the rim. "His name is Marcus. Six years ago, he... he thought he owned me. When I finally packed a single suitcase and walked out the door in the middle of the night, he didn't let go. He stalked my apartment for months. He called my employers until I lost three jobs in a row. I changed my name, my city, my life, just to get away from him. And tonight... because of a publisher's gala, he found me again."
She looked up at Nathan, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears and a sudden, bitter panic. "He knows where I am, Nathan. If my book publishes under my name, he's going to stalk me everywhere. I can't do this. I have to pull the manuscript. I have to leave the city."
Before she could pull back, Nathan reached out and caught both her hands in his, stopping her cold. His grip was warm, firm, and absolute.
"You are not running," Nathan said, his voice flat, resolute, and entirely unyielding.
"Nathan, you don't understand—"
"I understand everything that matters," he interrupted, his gaze holding hers with terrifying intensity. "Marcus is a coward who preys on isolation. But he isn't dealing with a frightened girl in Cincinnati anymore, Grace. He's dealing with a woman who has an entire legal department, a security detail if necessary, and a man who is entirely finished watching people try to break her."
Grace stared at him, her heart hammering against her ribs—not from fear this time, but from the terrifying, overwhelming realization that someone was finally willing to stand in front of her and hold the line.
May you like
"Why?" she whispered, her voice cracking. "Why are you doing all of this for me?"
Nathan leaned in closer, his thumb gently brushing across her knuckles. "Because on a crowded train three weeks ago, you looked a man twice your size in the eye and told him to leave you alone. And because from the moment I saw you, I knew I would burn every bridge in my life before I let anyone take your voice away again."
