Page 133 of The Tower

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like?” I demand, fury rising again. “Explain to me how you justified pretending to be someone else, manipulating my desires, violating the one space I thought was truly mine.”

He’s silent for a long moment, his expression raw. “I can’t justify it,” he says finally. “What started as observation became … fascination. I saw a different Sasha in Elysium—brilliant, creative, strong, nothing like the public persona your father created. The more I watched, the more I wanted … a connection.”

“So you decided to manipulate me. To become my fantasy lover.”

He nods, once again not denying it. “I told myself it was harmless. That in Elysium, we were both playing roles, both becoming something other than ourselves. But the truth is, I wanted to know you in a way your father’s security would never allow in the real world.”

“And after? When you had me in the real world, when I was literally in your bed, following your everything bargain? You still didn’t tell me.”

“I should have,” he says. “Every day that passed made it harder. How do you tell someone you’ve been spying on their most intimate thoughts? That you know their fantasies, their fears, their desires because you invaded their privacy?”

“You don’t,” I say coldly. “You just keep lying.”

“Yes.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “I kept lying. Because I was afraid of losing you.”

The admission hangs between us, raw and honest in a way that makes my chest ache. I want to cling to my anger, to let it shield me from the pain, but his unvarnished confession makes it harder than I expected.

“You should have thought of that before you slid into Prince Killiam,” I say, my voice low but steady. “Before you seduced me in Elysium. Before you built this … this fiction of connection between us.”

“It wasn’t fiction,” he says, a flash of intensity breaking through his mask of careful control. “Not all of it. What I felt for you—what I feel—is real, Sasha.”

He drags his fingers through his hair again. “Hell, it’s the only real thing in my life.”

I shake my head, fighting the dangerous pull of his words. “How would I know? Everything between us started with manipulation and lies. Even if your feelings changed, the foundation is rotten.”

He takes another step toward me, stopping when I raise a hand in warning. “You’re right. But I’m asking you—begging you—for a chance to build something new. Something honest.”

“You stole my agency, Liam. You manipulated things to how you wanted them just like my father did. So you tell me—how the hell am I supposed to trust you again?”

“I don’t know.” His shoulders slump slightly in resignation. “I’m not asking for forgiveness. Just … time. Space to prove that I can be the man you deserve.”

Part of me—a traitorous, yearning part—wants to give in, to believe that what we shared in Connecticut was real despite the lies that came before. But the wound is too fresh, the betrayal too profound.

“I need you to go,” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. “I need space. To think. To figure out who I am without men who watch me and manipulate me and try to mold me into their version of who I should be.”

Never once would I have thought that Liam Grimm has anything in common with my father, but he doesn’t deny a word of it. In fact, he accepts my edict with grace.

As he moves toward the door, a thought occurs to me. “How did you get past security?”

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “I told you once—I’m very good at what I do.”

“Which is breaking into places you don’t belong?”

I see the flinch he tries to hide. “Yes,” he agrees. “That’s part of it.”

He pauses at the threshold, turning back to face me, his eyes burning with an intensity that makes my breath catch despite everything. “I’ll be here tomorrow morning. And the next. And the next. For as long as it takes. Also,” he adds with just the flicker of a smile, “I love your haircut.”

Before I can respond, he’s gone, the door closing softly behind him.

I sink onto the couch, trembling with the aftermath of the confrontation— anger and grief and a confused longing. And, yes, with humor and a touch of pleasure, just because he still likes my hair.

I stifle a sigh, frustrated with my roiling, changing emotions.

How can I still want him, still miss him, after what he did?

Because it wasn’t all a lie, whispers a voice inside me. The connection was real, even if the path to it was twisted.