Good.

Even though she left the prison hours ago, she never left me. This woman has carved out a place in my mind and taken up residence. To remove her… I might actually go insane.

Well, more than I already am.

I laugh at this until the sound turns manic, until the hilarity of my thoughts has my eyes stinging as I roll around on my mattress. Given all the shit I’ve done, the number of people I’ve killed, how can I become more demented than I already am?

A guard walks up to my cell and slams his cudgel against the bars. “Shut up, Ghost.”

“Is that a baton, or are you just happy to see me?”

“You’re one crazy motherfucker.”

I sit up on the bed and pucker my lips to blow him a kiss. “Yes, sir.”

He shakes his head, grumbling to himself as he stalks off. I lie back down, returning to my thoughts of Geneva.

I close my eyes, savoring the image of her fury. The fire in her eyes as they darkened, shifting from that soft brown to a cold, hard black. Revealing the darkness that lives in both of us.

I recall the way she stiffened when I mentioned him. Mason. The name alone leaves a foul taste on my tongue like ash. If he wasn’t a tool needed to manipulate Geneva, I would kill him.

Once his usefulness is gone, all bets are off.

Her reactions this morning confirmed that she doesn’t feel anything for him. But I wasn’t just provoking her because I wanted to break her down—though I certainly enjoyed that part. No, it was more than that. I wanted to push her to tear him apart.

And to show him who she really is.

The glimpses I’ve seen of the real Geneva are beautiful. They’re raw, unfiltered, pure. When she lets go of the façade, when she stops pretending to be the calm, collected professional, she’s something else entirely.

She’s everything I expected her to be—and more. Enthralling. Captivating. I want to see her unravel, not just for me, but for herself.

Because I know, deep down, she’s dying to.

As I sit here in my cell, the thought of Mason being close to her, touching her, sharing the same space as her…

Fuck him.

He doesn’t know what she’s capable of. He’s too blind to see the fire beneath that ice, the part of Geneva that craves something deeper. Something darker.

The part that matches me.

The truth is there, gnawing at her like a parasite. She’s bored with him. Dissatisfied. She’s holding on out of fear, desperate for some sense of normalcy.

I roll onto my side, my eyes half-closed, a slow smile creeping onto my face. Soon enough she’ll break. Geneva will destroy him, and when she does, when she finally lets go of that safety net, she’ll realize that she’s been lying to herself and using him as a crutch.

And she’ll hate herself for it. She’ll hate him for it.

That’s when I’ll have her.

Because in the end, Mason will never be enough for her. He’s weak, ordinary, and she’s so much more than that. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it.

He doesn’t deserve her. He doesn’t understand her. Not like I do.

She’ll never belong in that mundane world he offers her.

Geneva belongs with me.

CHAPTER 13

“I’m going to end it for good this time,” I say, my tone resolute. “I’m done with Mason.”

Sarah doesn’t laugh like I expect her to. Her silence lingers, and I can picture her on the other end of the call—brows furrowed, lips pressed together.

“I believe you,” she finally says. Her voice is steady, but there’s a heaviness to it. “It’s long overdue.”

She’s right. How many nights have I looked at Mason and felt nothing? How many years have I gone through the motions with men but not really lived?

But things have changed.

“I know.” With a sigh, I lie back on my couch and prop my feet on the armrest. “I’ve just been… putting it off.”

“You’ve been putting it off because you’re scared. You don’t want to face what it’ll feel like when Mason isn’t there to distract you.”

Although her tone is gentle, her words hit hard. Being with Mason has always been about more than just comfort—it’s been about avoiding the real issues.

Ghost’s voice creeps into my mind, uninvited, taunting me. “Does your current distraction enjoy the pain you offer? Or has he finally gotten tired of it?”

Both Sarah and Ghost have called Mason my distraction. I hate how much truth there is in those words. Mason isn’t the problem—I am. But I’m done lying to myself.

“I’m doing it tonight. No more excuses.” My voice is firmer now. “I can’t keep pretending.”

Sarah lets out a long breath. “Good. Just… be kind to yourself, okay? You’re doing the right thing. I’m here all night if you need me.”

“You’re the best. Talk to you later.”

“Bye, Gen.”

Be kind to yourself.

It’s easier said than done, especially when you don’t like who you are.

I stand in front of the window, the city lights casting a dull glow over the room. My reflection stares back at me, eyes hollow, lips pressed together in a tight line. Who am I?

The reflection doesn’t answer, and I look away, trying to steady my breathing as the weight of Ghost’s words presses down on me again, heavier this time.

“What do you think he’d say if he saw the real you? The Geneva that I see?”

I shift my focus to constructing a psychological profile on Mason that’ll help me plan our upcoming conversation. After grabbing a legal pad and a pen, I begin to jot down notes as if Mason were a patient or a criminal.

Mason thrives on control—of his environment, his relationships, and, most importantly, the way others perceive him (Narcissistic tendencies). When things go his way, he’s charming, logical, even supportive. But when he’s challenged, he can’t handle anything that threatens his dominance.

I pause, nibbling on the tip of my pen. Although Mason has never lashed out physically, there’s repressed violence in him. I’ve seen it before, in the way his jaw tightens when I don’t fall in line with his expectations. It’s a quiet, dangerous kind of anger.

For some reason that I can’t explain, he doesn’t scare me the way Ghost does.

Mason can’t handle failure or rejection because it conflicts with the image he has of himself as a capable and strong man. When I tell him it’s over, he won’t just see it as the end of a relationship—he’ll see it as a personal attack, a reflection of his own inadequacies.

I put down my pen and reach for my wine glass. A little liquid courage never hurt anyone. Knowing Mason, he’ll try to manipulate the situation and turn the blame on me. But after dealing with Ghost, Mason’s tactics will seem like child’s play. I guess that serial killer asshole has been helpful in a way. The irony has a smile appearing on my lips as I pick my pen back up.

Me initiating this “break-up” will make Mason feel as though he’s been backed into a corner. He’s the type of person who believes he’s entitled to a certain level of respect, and when that respect is denied, he’ll lash out in ways that are meant to remind me of his power. The insults will be calculated, designed to make me feel small, to keep me in check.

The loud knock on my door has me pulling in a fortifying breath.

Here we go.

I place my wine glass down on the coffee table and get to my feet, rehearsing the lines in my head one last time. Direct, quick, honest. No unnecessary explanations, no reasons for him to stay.

When I open the door, Mason’s usual composed expression is in place. He steps inside without waiting for an invitation, sweeping his gaze over me. I’m in my usual sweatpants and an old, torn shirt—it’s casual with the intent to appear innocuous—and I catch the brief flicker of disapproval on his face before he speaks.