Chapter 3: The Morning After
The buzzing started low, insistent, a vibration that crawled through the mahogany nightstand and into her skull. Amber surfaced from sleep slowly, dragged up by inches, her body a catalog of aches. Her thighs burned. Her lower back throbbed. The spot between her legs felt raw, used, still slick with the evidence of everything he'd done to her in the dark.
She blinked against the morning light, filtering through the heavy drapes. The other side of the bed was empty. Cold.
The buzzing stopped, then started again.
She turned her head, wincing at the stiffness in her neck. Kash stood by the window, his back to her, a tailored charcoal suit already hugging his frame like a second skin. His locs were pulled back tight, freshly twisted, and his posture was rigid—shoulders squared, spine straight, the stance of a man preparing for war.
His phone glowed in his hand.
Amber pushed herself up on one elbow, the sheet falling away from her breasts. "Kash?"
He didn't turn.
"Who's blowing up your phone this early?"
Still nothing. His thumb moved across the screen, and she watched his reflection in the window glass—watched his jaw tighten, the muscle feathering beneath his skin. Whatever he was reading, it wasn't good.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, the marble floor cool against her bare feet. "Baby, talk to me."
He turned.
The look in his eyes stopped her cold.
It was the same look from last night—that wild, desperate thing that had crawled inside him and refused to leave. But there was something else now. Something she couldn't name. Something that made her stomach drop.
He crossed the room in three long strides.
She didn't have time to react. His hand found her chest and shoved her back onto the mattress, flat on her back, the air leaving her lungs in a sharp gasp. Before she could process what was happening, he was on her—knees spreading her thighs, belt already unbuckled, zipper already down.
"Kash—what the fuck—"
He didn't answer. Didn't speak. He just gripped her hips, lifted them, and drove himself inside her in one brutal stroke.
She screamed.
Not from pain, though there was pain—she was still sore, still raw from the night before. But it was the suddenness, the violence of it, the way he filled her without warning or preamble. He was already hard, already leaking, and he bottomed out like he was trying to bury himself in her bones.
"Fuck—Kash—"
He fucked her like he was running from something.
No warm-up. No slow build. Just raw, punishing strokes that made her teeth rattle and her vision blur. He gripped her hips so hard she knew there'd be bruises, his fingers digging into her flesh, and he didn't look at her face. He stared at the space just above her shoulder—somewhere distant, somewhere she couldn't follow.
"Kash, stop—you're hurting me—"
He didn't stop.
He fucked her harder.
Her nails found the sheets, clawing, tearing, searching for purchase as he pounded into her. The headboard slammed against the wall, a rhythmic pounding that matched the pounding in her chest. She was wet—she was always wet for him—but her body was confused, caught between the pleasure of being filled and the pain of being used.
"What the fuck is wrong with you—"
His hand clamped over her mouth.
She tasted his skin, that familiar scent of him. He didn't look at her. His eyes were fixed on something she couldn't see, something inside his own head, and he fucked her with a desperation that bordered on madness.
She stopped fighting.
Not because she wanted it. Not because it felt good. But because she knew him. She knew that whatever was in his head right now, whatever had triggered this, he wasn't seeing her. He was somewhere else. Somewhere dark. Somewhere she couldn't reach.
So she let him use her.
She lay there, limp, as he took what he needed. Her eyes stayed open, fixed on his face, watching the way his jaw clenched and his nostrils flared. He was beautiful—even like this, even lost like this—and that was the worst part. That she could look at him, a man buried inside her body, and still see the boy he'd been before the world broke him.
She loved him. God help her, she loved him.
His hips stuttered. His rhythm faltered. He came with a grunt that sounded like it had been punched out of him, spilling inside her with a violence that made her wince. He held himself there for a moment, buried deep, shuddering.
Then he pulled out.
He didn't say anything.
He zipped his pants. Buckled his belt. Straightened his jacket. And walked out of the room without looking back.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Amber lay there, staring at the ceiling, her chest heaving, her body a wreck of confusion and arousal and fear. She could feel his release leaking out of her, cooling on her thighs. She could feel the bruises forming on her hips where his fingers had dug in.
She could feel the tears burning behind her eyes.
What the fuck just happened?
She pushed herself up slowly, wincing at the ache between her legs. The sheets were ruined—a tangle of fabric and evidence and everything she didn't want to think about. She needed to shower. Needed to piss. Needed to figure out what the hell was going on with the man she'd just let use her like a fleshlight.
His phone was still on the nightstand.
She shouldn't look. She knew better. In their world, phones were loaded weapons, and the wrong glance could get you killed. But the screen was still lit, still glowing, and the message was still there.
She leaned over, just a little, just enough.
It's confirmed. They know about her. She's a liability now. You know what needs to happen.
Amber's blood went cold.
She read it again. Then a third time. The words didn't change. They sat there on the screen like a death sentence, like a door slamming shut, like every fear she'd ever swallowed down suddenly clawing its way back up her throat.
They know about her.
She's a liability.
You know what needs to happen.
The phone screen dimmed and went black.
Amber sat there for a long time, naked and trembling on the edge of the bed, trying to remember how to breathe. The room smelled like sex and violence. The sheets were twisted around her legs like restraints. And somewhere in the house, downstairs, she could hear him moving—the low rumble of his voice, the sharp click of his shoes on marble.
He was making calls. Handling business. Doing whatever it was he did when the world was closing in.
And she was up here, alone, with nothing but a message and a sinking feeling that she'd just become a problem he couldn't afford to keep.
She stood up.
Her legs almost gave out, but she caught herself on the bedpost, fingers curling around the carved wood. She needed to move. Needed to think. Needed to get in the shower and wash the evidence of him off her skin before she lost her mind.
The bathroom was a cathedral of black marble and gold fixtures, the shower big enough for three people. She turned the water on scalding and stepped under the spray, letting it pound against her shoulders, her back, the tender places between her thighs.
The water ran pink for a minute before it ran clear.
She pressed her palms against the cold marble wall and let herself cry. Not the pretty kind—the kind that came with snot and ugly sounds and a pressure in her chest that felt like drowning. She cried because she was scared. She cried because she was angry. She cried because a man had just fucked her like she was a hole to be used and then walked away without a word.
She cried because she loved him, and she was starting to wonder if that love was going to get her killed.
When the water finally ran cold, she turned it off and stepped out. She wrapped herself in a towel that probably cost more than her first car and stood in front of the mirror, studying her own reflection like she was seeing herself for the first time.
Bruises on her hips. Fingerprints on her jaw. A red mark on her shoulder where his teeth had grazed too hard.
She looked like she'd been in a fight.
Maybe she had.
She walked back into the bedroom, grabbed her phone off the charger, and pulled up her messages. Three unread texts from her best friend, Jayla. One from her shop manager about a client who wanted to reschedule.
Nothing from Kash.
She opened Jayla's messages.
Girl, where you at? Tasha said you didn't show up for your nine o'clock.
You good?
I'm not trying to be in your business but you know I worry.
Amber stared at the screen, her thumbs hovering over the keyboard. She could tell the truth. Could say, yeah, my man came home covered in blood last night and fucked me like I was nothing this morning and I just saw a message on his phone saying I'm a liability that needs to be handled.
But she didn't.
I'm good. Just overslept. Tell Tasha I'll call her.
She hit send before she could overthink it.
Then she went to the closet.
Kash had filled it with things she never would have bought for herself—designer dresses, heels that cost more than her rent, bags that came with their own security systems. She'd never asked for any of it. He'd just given it, the way he gave everything—without asking, without considering whether she wanted it.
She bypassed the fancy shit and grabbed a pair of leggings, a cropped hoodie, and her favorite sneakers. Comfortable. Practical. The kind of clothes you wore when you needed to run.
Because that was what she was doing, wasn't it? Running.
She was halfway down the stairs when she heard him.
"You fucking heard me. Take care of it."
His voice came from the study, low and cold, the voice he used when he was giving orders. She stopped on the landing, her hand on the banister, and listened.
"No. Not yet. I'll handle her."
Handle her.
Amber felt the floor drop out from under her. She gripped the banister hard enough to splinter the wood, her acrylic nails digging into her palm. Handle her. Like she was a problem. Like she was a loose end. Like everything they'd built wasn't worth more than a business decision.
She should have kept walking. Should have gone back upstairs, packed her shit, and called an Uber. Should have done a dozen different things.
Instead, she walked toward the study.
The door was cracked, just a sliver of light spilling into the hallway. She pushed it open without knocking.
Kash stood behind his desk, phone pressed to his ear, his free hand braced on the polished wood. He looked up when she entered, and something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, or guilt. It was gone before she could name it.
"I'll call you back," he said into the phone, and hung up.
The silence that followed was heavier than anything she'd ever carried.
"Handle me?" Amber's voice was quiet. Too quiet. "That's what I am now? A problem you gotta handle?"
He didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Just stood there, impeccable in his suit, his eyes unreadable.
"You looked at my phone."
The words hung in the air between them. Not a question. An accusation.
"You fucked me like a piece of ass and walked out without a word, and that's what you're worried about?" She stepped closer, her hands shaking. "I saw the message, Kash. They know about me. I'm a liability. You know what needs to happen." She spat the words back at him like poison. "So what's it gonna be? You gonna put a bullet in my head, or you gonna have one of your boys do it?"
His jaw tightened. "Amber."
"Don't." She held up a hand, her nails sharp and glittering in the low light. "Don't you dare stand there and pretend like this isn't exactly what it looks like. I've been in this life long enough to know what 'handling' someone means."
He moved around the desk, slow, deliberate, the way you'd approach a wounded animal. "You think I'd hurt you?"
"I think you just did."
That stopped him cold.
She stood her ground, tears pricking at her eyes, refusing to let them fall. She'd already cried once today. She wasn't giving him the satisfaction of seeing it again.
"I've been loyal to you," she said, her voice cracking despite her best efforts. "I've kept your secrets. I've held you down when you were coming apart. I've looked the other way when you came home covered in blood. I've loved you when you didn't deserve it, Kash."
"Ams—"
"No." She shook her head. "You don't get to call me that right now. You don't get to be sweet with me after what you just did. After what I just read."
He stopped in front of her. Close enough to touch. Close enough that she could smell the cologne on his skin and the coffee on his breath and the faint, lingering trace of her own body on his hands.
"They know about you," he said quietly. "The feds. Delgado. Everyone. They know you're my weakness, and they're going to use you to get to me."
"And that's my fault?"
"No. It's mine." He reached for her, but she stepped back. "It's my fault for loving you. My fault for not hiding you better. My fault for thinking I could have something good in this fucked-up life without it turning into a weapon against me."
"So what do we do?"
He looked at her—really looked at her—and for the first time since she'd walked in, she saw the fear underneath the ice. The fear of losing her. The fear of failing her. The fear of being the reason she got hurt.
"I'm going to get you out," he said. "Out of Charlotte. Out of this life. Somewhere they can't find you."
"And you?"
"I stay. I fight. I handle it."
"Handle it." She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You sound like you're planning to die."
He didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
Amber stood there, looking at the man she'd given everything to, and wondered if she'd ever really known him at all.
Amber stood there, looking at the man she'd given everything to, and wondered if she'd ever really known him at all.
The silence between them stretched like a held breath. Kash's hands hung at his sides, fingers twitching—the same fingers that had been inside her an hour ago, the same fingers that had left bruises on her hips. He looked at her like she was a puzzle he couldn't solve, and she looked at him like he was a stranger wearing a familiar face.
"You're not gonna say anything else?" Her voice came out raw, scraped clean of the sass and fire she usually carried. "Just gonna stand there looking at me like I'm the one who fucked up?"
"I'm trying to figure out how to keep you alive." His jaw worked, teeth grinding. "That's all I've ever been trying to do."
"By fucking me like I'm nothing? By talking about me like I'm a problem to be solved?" She stepped closer, close enough to see the vein pulsing in his temple. "You got a funny way of showing love, Kash."
He moved fast—faster than she expected. One hand caught her wrist, the other found her chin, tilting her face up until she had nowhere to look but into those cold hazel eyes. His grip wasn't rough, but it wasn't gentle either. It was the grip of a man who'd spent his whole life learning how to hold things without breaking them.
"You think I wanted this?" His voice was low, dangerous, vibrating in his chest. "You think I wanted to come home last night with another man's blood on my hands and fuck you like some kind of animal?"
"That's exactly what you did."
"Because I needed to feel something real." His thumb traced her jaw, feather-light, a ghost of tenderness. "Because when I'm inside you, I forget about the bodies. I forget about the blood. I forget about every fucked-up thing I've done to get where I am."
"And this morning?"
He let go of her wrist, but kept his grip on her chin. Something shifted behind his eyes—shame, maybe, or something darker. "This morning I got a message that changed everything. They know about you, Ams. They know what you mean to me. And I panicked."
"So you fucked me like I was a hole to fill."
"I fucked you like I was saying goodbye."
The words hit her like a physical blow. She pulled away, stumbling back, her sneakers squeaking against the marble floor. Goodbye. He'd been saying goodbye. The brutal, punishing thrusts. The way he hadn't looked at her face. The silence afterward, the walking away.
He'd been saying goodbye.
"You're not serious." Her voice cracked. "You're not actually sending me away."
"I'm keeping you alive." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded envelope. "There's a car waiting out back. Keys, cash, a new phone. Everything you need to disappear for a while."
"For a while?" She laughed, but it came out broken. "Or forever?"
He didn't answer. That was answer enough.
"You're just gonna ship me off like a package? Like I'm some kind of liability you can just—" She couldn't finish the sentence. The words got stuck in her throat, tangled up with all the love and fear and rage churning in her chest.
"You think this is easy for me?" He crossed the distance between them in two steps, pulling her against his chest. She resisted—tried to, anyway—but he was stronger, and she was tired, and the smell of him was so fucking familiar it made her want to weep. "You think I want to wake up tomorrow and not have you next to me? You think I want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, wondering if you're safe?"
"Then don't send me away."
"I have to."
"You don't."
"Amber." He pulled back, cupping her face in both hands, forcing her to meet his eyes. "They will kill you to get to me. They will hurt you in ways I can't protect you from. And I would rather die a thousand deaths than let that happen."
She stared at him, tears streaming down her cheeks, and saw the truth in his face. He believed every word. He believed he was saving her. He believed this was the only way.
And maybe he was right.
"Where am I supposed to go?"
"I can't tell you. Not yet." He wiped her tears with his thumbs, gentle now, impossibly gentle. "The less you know, the safer you are. I'll find you when it's over."
"And if it's never over?"
"It will be." He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing her in. "I'll make sure of it."
She stood there in his arms, feeling the solid warmth of him against her, and made a decision that had nothing to do with what he wanted. She wasn't going to wait for his men to spirit her away. She wasn't going to let him control this, the way he controlled everything else.
She was going to leave on her own terms.
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay."
He kissed her forehead, then her lips—soft, lingering, the kind of kiss that tasted like goodbye. When he pulled away, his eyes were wet. She'd never seen him cry before. She'd never seen him come close.
"I love you," he said.
"I know."
He stared at her for another moment, like he was memorizing her face. Then he straightened his jacket, squared his shoulders, and walked out of the study. She heard his footsteps on the marble, the front door opening, the low murmur of voices outside.
Then the door closed. And she was alone.
She didn't move for a full minute. Just stood there, barefoot on the cold floor, listening to the silence of the mansion. When she was sure he was gone—when she heard the engine of his Escalade rumble to life and fade into the distance—she moved.
Her phone was still in the bedroom. She grabbed it, along with her purse, her keys, and the sneakers she'd never put on. She didn't bother with the clothes in the closet. Didn't bother with the jewelry, the bags, the evidence of a life she was leaving behind. She grabbed a duffel bag from the hall closet, shoved in a few essentials—toiletries, a change of clothes, the cash she kept stashed in her purse for emergencies—and headed for the door.
She paused in the foyer, looking back at the house that had been her home for the past two years. The marble floors. The crystal chandelier. The security system that was probably worth more than her entire townhouse. It was beautiful. It was cold. It had never really been hers.
She walked out without looking back.
Her car was parked in the garage, a sleek black Mercedes he'd bought her for her birthday. She climbed in, started the engine, and pulled out of the driveway with her heart pounding against her ribs. No security guard stopped her. No one asked where she was going. She was just another ghost slipping through the cracks.
The drive to her townhouse took forty minutes. She took the back roads, avoiding the highways, keeping her eyes on the rearview mirror. No one followed her. No one knew she was gone.
Her townhouse was a small brick building on a quiet street in University City, the kind of place where nobody asked questions and everybody minded their own business. She parked in the garage, pulled the door down, and sat in the dark for a long moment, her hands gripping the steering wheel.
Then she went inside.
She didn't turn on the lights. Didn't open the blinds. She walked through the dark rooms—living room, kitchen, bedroom—and checked every window, every door, every possible point of entry. When she was satisfied that everything was locked and secure, she closed the curtains in every room, plunging the house into a twilight dimness.
It would look empty from the outside. Like no one was home.
She grabbed her phone from her purse and opened her messages. Her thumb hovered over the screen for a moment before she typed.
Hey, something came up. I'm gonna be out for a while. Handle the shop for me. I'll check in when I can.
She sent it before she could second-guess herself. Then she turned the phone on silent, tossed it on the kitchen counter, and stood there in the darkness, listening to the silence.
She was hiding.
It was what she'd done as a child, when her mother's boyfriends got too rough and she needed somewhere to disappear. It was what she'd done in high school, when the girls got jealous and the boys got mean and she couldn't afford to be seen. It was what she'd done when she first met Kash—she'd kept a low profile, stayed off the radar, made herself invisible until she was sure he wouldn't hurt her.
She'd gotten comfortable. She'd let her guard down. She'd let herself believe she was safe.
She wasn't safe.
She sat down on the living room floor, her back against the couch, her knees pulled up to her chest. The house creaked around her, settling into the night. Outside, the street was quiet. Inside, her heart was a war drum.
She thought about Kash. About the way he'd looked at her when he said goodbye. About the blood on his shirt and the bruises on her hips and the words on his phone. They know about her. She's a liability. You know what needs to happen.
She thought about running. Not just hiding—running. Leaving Charlotte. Leaving North Carolina. Starting over somewhere no one knew her name.
But she didn't run. She stayed.
Because running meant admitting she'd lost. Running meant letting them win. Running meant walking away from the only man who'd ever made her feel like more than just a pretty face with a smart mouth.
She wasn't done fighting. Not yet.
Her phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. She didn't get up to answer it. She just sat there, in the dark, in the silence, waiting for whatever came next.
The night wasn't over. And neither was she.