The hotel bar sat on the second floor, tucked behind a pair of dark glass doors that muffled the noise of the lobby below. Warm amber light washed over everything inside, soft enough to feel intimate, bright enough to gleam off polished surfaces. The counter stretched long and curved, made of dark walnut wood sealed to a mirror shine. Behind it, shelves climbed almost to the ceiling, stacked with crystal bottles arranged by color rather than brand, deep greens fading into ambers and clear glass. A strip of low golden light ran beneath each shelf, making the liquor glow like something precious.

High stools lined the bar, leather seats cushioned and worn just enough to feel lived in. Small round tables filled the rest of the space, each with a single candle trapped in frosted glass. Jazz hummed quietly through hidden speakers, the kind that blended into the background without demanding attention. Floor-to-ceiling windows ran along one side, revealing the city outside, lights scattered like stars beneath a slow fall of snow.

Kim sat at the bar, second stool from the end, her back straight but her shoulders slightly drawn in. A tall glass of apple juice rested in front of her, condensation pooling beneath it. She wasn't drinking much. Mostly, she stared at the wooden counter, eyes unfocused, fingers idly tracing the rim of the coaster.

"Hmm…"

I paused a few steps away, watching her for a second longer than I probably should have. She looked smaller like this. Not physically, but emotionally, like the weight she was carrying had folded her in on herself. I hated that feeling in my chest that followed. The same one that had been there all evening.

I walked over and took the stool beside her, the leather creaking softly as I sat. The bartender glanced at me, nodded once in silent greeting, then went back to polishing a glass.

Kim's eyes lifted for a brief moment when she sensed me there. They flicked to my face, then down again to the counter, like she hadn't yet decided whether to acknowledge me.

I rested my forearms on the bar. "Hey," I said quietly.

"Hey," she replied, her voice steady but distant.

I signaled the bartender. "Just water," I said. He nodded and slid a glass toward me a moment later.

For a while, neither of us spoke. The music filled the silence, a slow saxophone weaving between notes. Kim took a small sip of her juice, then set the glass back down carefully, as if afraid it might tip.

She broke the silence without looking at me.

"Carrie Beldenwary," she said. "Do you know how many boards she sits on?"

I turned slightly toward her. "No. But I'm guessing more than zero."

A humorless smile tugged at her lips. "Twelve. That I know of. Charities, private foundations, education trusts. She doesn't just donate money. She owns influence."

I frowned. "So what?"

She finally looked at me then, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion behind them. "So people listen to her, Evan. Pastors. Politicians. Investors. She hosts these galas that look harmless on the surface, all white dresses and prayer speeches, but they're not really about charity. They're about networking. About power."

"She's religious," I said. "So what? Half the city is."

Kim shook her head slowly. "Not like her. Carrie isn't just religious. She's devout to the point of obsession. Everything is sin or virtue. Black or white. And she decides which one you are."

Her fingers curled around the glass.

"That's why she hated me from the start."

I didn't interrupt. I could tell she needed to say this.

"She smiled at me the first time we met," Kim continued. "Said I was pretty. Said Tom was lucky. Then she asked where my parents were. What church I went to. Why I worked nights. I answered honestly. I thought honesty mattered to people like her."

Her laugh was soft and bitter.

"It doesn't."

I clenched my jaw. "She had no right."

"She thinks she does," Kim said. "She thinks God gave it to her."

She finally took a longer drink, then wiped her mouth with a napkin. "She told Tom I was a temptation. A test. Said I would ruin his soul. That I wasn't fit to carry the Beldenwary name."

I looked at her, anger burning slow and hot in my chest. "And he just… let her?"

Kim's shoulders lifted in a small shrug. "Tom never disagreed with her. Not really. He just nodded and looked ashamed, like I was something he'd broken by touching."

I wanted to say something violent. I didn't.

"She has connections in media too," Kim went on. "Quiet ones. Editors who owe her favors. Sponsors who listen when she hints. If that photo gets out…" She trailed off, fingers tightening around the glass again.

"So what?" I said firmly. "We deal with it."

She turned to me, brows knitting together. "How?"

"Like we deal with everything else," I said. "We don't fold."

Kim shook her head. "You don't understand. This isn't some jealous ex or angry investor. Carrie doesn't fight fair. She doesn't have to. She can destroy reputations without ever touching someone directly."

I leaned closer, lowering my voice. "And you think I'm just going to step aside and let her take you?"

Her lips parted slightly. She hesitated. "I think… I think we can't beat her, Evan."

The words landed heavier than anything else she'd said.

I turned fully toward her, resting my elbow on the bar. "Look at me."

She did.

"We can," I said. "And we will."

Kim searched my face like she was looking for a crack, some doubt I hadn't noticed yet. "You don't know what you're promising."

"I know exactly what I'm promising," I said. "I'm not abandoning you."

Her breath hitched. "Evan—"

"I mean it," I said, more quietly now. "She doesn't get to scare you into disappearing. She doesn't get to rewrite your life because it fits her beliefs better."

Kim's eyes shimmered. She looked away again, staring at the shelves of liquor like the bottles had answers.

"She called me a mistake," she said softly. "Said God forgives, but society doesn't. That I'd always be a stain."

I felt something twist in my chest. "She's wrong."

"She believes she's right," Kim replied. "And belief like that… it's dangerous."

I reached out, my hand stopping just short of hers on the bar. I didn't touch her yet. I wanted her to choose it.

"She believes she's untouchable," I said. "People like that always do."

Kim swallowed. "And what if she is?"

"Then we touch her anyway," I said. "Metaphorically. Legally. Strategically. Whatever it takes."

She let out a shaky breath. "You say that like it's simple."

"It's not," I admitted. "But simple doesn't mean impossible."

The bartender passed behind us, refilling a bowl of citrus slices. The jazz shifted to a slower tempo.

Kim's composure finally cracked. Her shoulders sagged, tension bleeding out all at once.

"I didn't want you dragged into this," she said. "You already have so much on your plate. The company. Nala. Everything."

I shook my head. "You are not a burden."

She laughed weakly. "You say that so easily."

"Because it's true," I said. "You think I'd be here right now if you weren't important to me?"

Her eyes met mine again, glossy now. "She said she'd take everything from me if I didn't come back to Tom."

I felt my jaw tighten. "And?"

"And part of me wondered if it would just be easier," Kim whispered. "To disappear. To let her win."

I reached out then and placed my hand over hers. She stiffened for half a second, then relaxed, fingers curling into my palm.

"Don't," I said. "Don't even think that."

Her breath started to shake. "I'm so tired, Evan."

"I know," I said gently. "You don't have to carry it alone."

That was it. Her control finally gave out.

Kim's lower lip trembled. She tried to say something, failed, then pressed her mouth shut like she could hold it in that way. Tears welled anyway, slipping free and trailing down her cheeks.

"I hate her," she whispered, voice breaking. "I hate that she still scares me."

I slid closer, my arm coming around her shoulders. She hesitated for a heartbeat, then leaned into me, her head settling against my shoulder like she'd been waiting for permission.

Her sobs were quiet but deep, shaking her frame as she cried into my coat. I held her, one hand firm at her upper arm, the other resting against her back, steady and grounding.

"It's okay," I murmured. "I've got you."

She clutched the front of my jacket, fingers twisting into the fabric. "Don't let her take me away."

"I won't," I said without hesitation.

Her breathing slowly began to even out, though she didn't pull away. She stayed there, head on my shoulder, eyes closed, trusting me with the weight she'd been holding all night.

I wrapped my arm a little tighter around her and stared out through the window at the falling snow, already thinking, already planning.

This wasn't over.

But neither was I.

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