My own knuckles are raw and split, a useless testament to the fury I couldn’t unleash on the men who held me down while she fought.
I almost lost her.
The thought hits like a fist every time, sharp and sudden, stealing air from my lungs.
I don’t think people understand what that kind of loss would do to someone like me. They talk about heartbreak like it’s survivable. Like you breathe through it, wait it out, learn to live again.
I wouldn’t.
Ellie isn’t something Ihave. She’s something Iam. Every version of myself worth saving exists because she saw me when I was at my worst and stayed long enough to demand better. Before her, I survived. Barely. With her, I learned what it means to live.
And I almost lost her.
I replay it over and over—the look on her face when Aria slammed a blade into her stomach. God, that expression will haunt me forever. Not anger. Not even tears. Just resignation. Like she was already giving up and had accepted her death.
That was the moment I realized the truth.
If Ellie were to die, I wouldn’t get a redemption arc. There would be no rebuilding or moving on. There would just be a hollowed-out version of me walking through days that don’t mean anything, breathing air that feels stolen.
No…not even that.
I would rather die than live in a world without her in it.
Because I can lose a lot of things. I’ve lost before. I know how to endure pain.
But losing Ellie?
I wouldn’t survive it.
The door clicks open, and two people in plain clothes step inside. They have that unmistakable federal-agent look—worn expressions, cheap suits, and eyes that have seen too much.
What are their names again?
I scour my memory.
Agents Larissa Marsha and Timon Jeffries.
Ryker tenses, his hand drifting toward his hoodie pocket, where a weapon should be. Like the rest of us, he looks like shit, his skin mutilated with cuts and bruises.
But we all refuse to leave Ellie’s room.
We allowed the doctors to stitch and bandage us up the best they could, but that was the extent of it.
“Is she awake yet?” the older agent asks, his gaze sweeping over all of us before landing on me, who happens to be closest to Ellie.
I shake my head, trying to swallow around the spike that has been jammed down my throat. “Not yet.”
Jeffries nods, like he expected as much.
“I don’t know if we’ve all been properly introduced, but I’m Agent Marsha and this is my partner, Jeffries,” the woman says, flashing credentials she doesn’t need to. “We’re here to update you on the Paragons of Prosperity situation.”
Beckett lifts his head, his eyes hollowed out. “Situation? Aria’s dead. Isn’t that the end of it?”
“For the most part,” Jeffries says, running a hand over his bald head. “The organization is in chaos. In the last twelve hours, about half of the known members have committed suicide. Cult-style. The other half have been taken into federal custody.”
A heavy silence hangs in the air. It’s supposed to be good news. Victory. But it feels hollow.
Landon lets out a short, bitter laugh from his chair. “Detained. They’ll walk free. POP’s lawyers are probably filing motions as we speak. They have money, connections. They’ll spin a story about being brainwashed and be out by Christmas.”