Ana didn't run because she didn't love him.
She ran because she did.
Standing in the quiet of her late mother's abandoned villa on the outskirts of Florence, Ana let her fingers trail over dusty picture frames and faded wallpaper. She remembered this place—barely. A childhood memory wrapped in warm light and whispers, long before bullets replaced lullabies and every truth became a weapon.
She needed answers.
Not from Hayden.
From herself.
The ledger had changed everything. Her mother hadn't been just a wife. She had been a player. A woman caught between powerful men and fatal loyalties. Was Hayden right all along? Had Ana been protected as a bargaining chip?
Was she ever *really* innocent?
The floor creaked behind her.
Ana turned fast, clutching a fire poker from the fireplace like a weapon—until the figure in the doorway stepped into the light.
Hayden.
Soaked from the rain, his eyes dark, jaw tense.
"Put that down," he said quietly. "Before you hurt someone."
Ana didn't move. "I told you not to follow me."
"And I told you I don't follow orders."
The silence stretched, thick and electric. Water dripped from his coat onto the marble floor. He looked like the storm itself had dressed him in rage.
"You don't understand what I found," she said.
"Try me."
Ana held up the page—her mother's name, her mother's signature on a contract that helped fund the Moretti war chest.
Hayden stared at it, then looked at Ana.
"You think that makes you guilty?"
"I don't know," she whispered. "I just know I'm part of something broken."
He stepped closer. "So am I. That doesn't mean we stop."
She dropped the poker, letting it clatter to the floor. "Then tell me the truth, Hayden. All of it."
He walked up to her, slow and deadly calm.
"You were never the plan," he said. "You were the punishment."
Ana's breath hitched.
"I wanted to make you fall. I wanted to marry you, ruin you, destroy every inch of innocence your father thought he could protect. I wanted to use you like he used my mother's death to build his power."
Her face went pale. "So why didn't you?"
"Because I fell first," he growled.
His hand closed around her wrist. Not hard. Not gentle either. Just enough to remind her she could pull away—and enough to show he'd never let go first.
"You crawled under my skin," he said, voice low. "You became the only part of me that wasn't made of blood and ash. And now I can't breathe without you."
Ana's voice cracked. "You lied to me."
He nodded. "Yes."
"You used me."
"I did."
Tears slid silently down her cheeks.
And still—she didn't run.
Because what lived between them now was no longer clean or simple. It was poisoned, bruised, and real.
Hayden leaned in, his breath against her lips. "So run, Ana. Hate me. Scream. But don't lie to yourself."
She blinked. "About what?"
He pressed his forehead to hers. "That you don't want me as much as I want you."
His mouth found hers—rough, claiming, desperate.
She kissed him back like she was drowning.
Because maybe she was.
And maybe drowning in him didn't feel like dying at all.