Page 32 of Prospect’s Curvy Vinyl Girl

But the music isn't the building. The legacy isn't the physical address. The Syndicate wants the dirt beneath my feet, and I’ve been slowly dying to keep it from them.

I turn in Tyler’s arms. I look up at his face. The sharp line of his jaw. The dark need in his eyes. He’s waiting for my command. The lethal weapon, fully primed, submitted to my word.

"Grab the packing tape from the back room," I say quietly.

Tyler’s brow furrows. "Tape?"

"For the boxes." I step out of his hold, moving toward the back corner of the shop. My spine is straight. The suffocating pressure in my chest—the pressure that has lived there for years—vanishes. "We aren't fixing the crates. We are packing them."

Tyler goes perfectly still. "Wendy."

"They want the Vault?" A sharp grin pulls at my mouth. The sass, the fire, the certainty of who I am comes flooding back into my veins. "Let them have the empty shell. Let them have the rotting wood and the bad plumbing. I'm taking the music. I'm taking the inventory. I'm taking the soul of this place, and I’m leaving them a hollow corpse."

Tyler’s chest expands on a jagged inhale. The dark obsession in his eyes flares into something blinding.

"You're calling the extraction." His voice is rough.

"I'm repositioning." I walk past the ruined rock section, past the scattered jazz sleeves, straight to the far corner. To the stack of reinforced cardboard boxes I use for shipping rare finds. "I’m not a victim, Tyler. I’m not a ghost haunting my mother's grave. And you aren't a ghost playing fake names in a dead town."

I grab the top box. I drag it to the center of the room. The sound of the cardboard scraping against the oak floor is loud. Final.

"Help me pack," I order him.

Tyler doesn't hesitate. He moves with that terrifying grace, grabbing a roll of packing tape from the counter drawer. The sharp rip of the adhesive echoes in the quiet shop.

We work for hours. The morning sun climbs higher, heating the front windows, casting long rectangles of light across the floorboards. The labor is grueling. Sorting. Taping. Stacking. Every box taped shut is a brick removed from the wall of my cage. Every crate emptied is a breath of fresh air filling my lungs.

Tyler handles the lifting. He stacks the fifty-pound boxes near the back door, one after another, his black t-shirt clinging to his chest, damp with sweat. He doesn't complain. He doesn't ask questions. He simply executes my commands, building the foundation of our escape.

By mid-afternoon, the main floor is stripped bare.

The wooden crates are empty. The posters are rolled in tubes. The oak counter is cleared of everything except the register and the jar of honey. The shop looks cavernous. Echoing. Dead.

It doesn't hurt. That’s the most shocking part. Looking at the bare walls, I don't feel the sharp sting of grief. I feel the terrifying rush of the future.

I walk to the corner near the beaded curtain.

One box remains.

It isn't a shipping box. It’s a vintage, reinforced milk crate. My mother’s private collection. The untouchables. The records she kept behind the counter, the ones she played when the shop was closed and it was just the two of us dancing on the oak floorboards.

I drop to my knees in front of it. My fingers tremble as I trace the edge of the plastic crate. This is the core. The center of the legacy.

Tyler stops working. He walks across the empty floorboards, his boots echoing in the hollow room. He drops to one knee beside me. He doesn't crowd me. He simply anchors me with his presence, the heat of his shoulder pressing against mine.

"The last box out of Crimson Hollow," I murmur.

"Take your time." Tyler’s voice is steady and low.

I reach into the crate. I flip through the thick, heavy sleeves. The worn edges. The faded ink. Every single spine tells a story. Every single artist is a memory. I pull out a 1970s pressing of Fleetwood Mac. The cover is battered. The vinyl inside is pristine.

I look at the record. Then I look at Tyler.

He watches me with unblinking intensity. He knows what this moment means. He knows I’m not just packing cardboard. I’m packing my soul. I’m cutting the tether to the past and handing the rope to him.

I don't put the record in the shipping box.

I stand up, holding the worn cardboard sleeve against my chest. Tyler rises with me, towering over me in the empty shop.