Victoria unpacked her bags.
Nyangtsi watched in silence.
"This doesn't mean I forgive you," she said.
"I don't want forgiveness," he replied. "I want you."
She looked at him—really looked at him.
And realized the most dangerous truth of all.
She wasn't trapped.
She was choosing to stay.
Victoria unpacked her bags.
Slowly. Deliberately.
Each item placed back into drawers felt like a decision being carved into stone. Not resignation. Not defeat. Choice. She could feel Nyangtsi's presence behind her—silent, watchful, unreadable. He didn't help. Didn't interrupt. He simply stood there, as if afraid that one wrong word would shatter the fragile balance between them.
"This doesn't mean I forgive you," she said at last, her back still turned.
"I don't want forgiveness," he replied quietly. "I want you."
The words landed heavy, stripped of manipulation, stripped of threat. Honest in a way that unsettled her far more than cruelty ever could.
She turned then.
Really looked at him.
Not the man in headlines. Not the architect of ruin. Not the shadow behind Blackwell Holdings.
But the man standing in her bedroom, shoulders tense, eyes dark with restraint, waiting.
And that was when the most dangerous truth settled into her bones.
She wasn't trapped.
She was choosing to stay.
The realization didn't bring comfort. It brought clarity—and fear.
"Wanting me doesn't erase what you did," she said.
"I know," he answered. "It just explains why I won't do it again."
Her breath caught. "You can't promise that."
"No," he agreed. "But I can promise this—no one will ever touch what's mine again."
The possessiveness in his voice should have repulsed her.
Instead, it sent a shiver through her.
"Say it properly," she challenged. "Say what I am."
He held her gaze. "You are my wife. By contract. By choice. And increasingly… by will."
Silence stretched between them, thick and intimate.
She took a step closer. Not enough to touch. Enough to feel the pull.
"This doesn't make us real," she said.
"It makes us inevitable," he replied.
That night, they didn't cross the line.
They danced around it.
Dinner was shared in quiet tension, glances brushing like fingertips. When their hands accidentally touched, neither pulled away immediately. When she passed him in the hallway, his gaze followed her with open hunger he no longer bothered to hide.
Later, Victoria stood on the balcony again, the city glowing beneath her. Nyangtsi joined her without a word, stopping at her side—not behind her this time.
Progress.
"You should still leave," he said suddenly.
She looked at him, startled. "You're letting me go?"
"I'm giving you the choice," he replied. "Again."
She studied his profile—the sharp jaw, the controlled stillness, the man who had built empires and destroyed lives without hesitation.
And yet here he was, offering freedom like a loaded weapon.
"If I leave," she asked, "what happens to you?"
A pause.
"Nothing good."
She nodded slowly. "And if I stay?"
His gaze turned to her, intense. "Then everything changes."
She turned back to the city.
"I'll stay," she said. "But on my terms."
A faint, dangerous smile curved his lips. "I wouldn't respect you otherwise."
They stood there, side by side, not touching, the distance between them charged with everything they weren't ready to admit.
This wasn't love.
Not yet.
It was something darker. Sharper. Built from power, resentment, attraction, and choice.
And as Victoria leaned her elbows on the railing, feeling his presence steady and unyielding beside her, she understood one final truth:
Walking away would have been easier.
Staying meant becoming someone new.
And Nyangtsi Andesunn Tom would either be the man who destroyed her—
Or the man she learned to conquer right back.The shift was subtle after that.
Dangerous because of how normal it felt.
Victoria began to move through the penthouse as if it were truly hers. She rearranged small things—flowers, books, the placement of a lamp by the window. No one stopped her. No one questioned her. Even Lira watched with a new kind of attention, quieter, almost respectful.
Nyangtsi noticed everything.
"You're claiming territory," he said one evening, watching her replace a painting in the hallway.
"I live here," she replied evenly. "That's not the same thing."
"It is to me."
She paused, then turned. "Then you'd better get used to sharing."
Something unreadable crossed his face—approval, perhaps. Or anticipation.
They settled into a routine that felt intimate in ways neither acknowledged aloud. Breakfast together. Occasional late dinners when his meetings ran long. He began to tell her things—not everything, never everything—but enough to let her see the machinery behind the power.
Names. Alliances. Enemies.
She listened. Learned.
And Nyangtsi began to realize something unsettling.
Victoria wasn't just surviving his world.
She was adapting to it.
The first time she challenged him in front of someone else was at a private dinner with investors.
They were discussing expansion—cold numbers, colder consequences—when one man laughed and said, "Collateral damage is unavoidable."
Victoria set her glass down gently. "Only when you're lazy."
The table went silent.
The investor stared at her, incredulous. "Excuse me?"
"She means," Nyangtsi said calmly, "that inefficiency creates mess. And mess attracts attention."
Victoria met his gaze, surprised.
He hadn't corrected her.
He had backed her.
The investor chuckled nervously and changed the subject.
Later, alone in the elevator, Nyangtsi looked at her with something dangerously close to pride.
"You could have embarrassed me," he said.
"I could have," she agreed. "But you didn't stop me."
"No," he admitted. "Because you were right."
The doors closed.
The silence pressed in again.
"You're teaching me," she said slowly.
"And you're changing me," he replied.
That night, the tension snapped—not into touch, but into truth.
They stood in the kitchen, close enough to feel each other's breath, arguing in low voices.
"You don't get to decide when I'm protected and when I'm disposable," she said.
"I decide everything," he shot back.
"Not anymore."
He stared at her. "You think staying gave you power?"
"I know it did."
The words hung between them, bold and irreversible.
He stepped closer. "Careful."
She didn't retreat. "Why? Afraid I'll realize I don't need you?"
His voice dropped. "Afraid you'll realize I do."
The admission cracked something open.
For a moment—just one—the masks fell.
Then Nyangtsi straightened, control snapping back into place like armor. "This is why this can't go further," he said. "Want makes men reckless."
"And what does it make women?" she asked softly.
His gaze flicked to her mouth before he caught himself. "Dangerous."
She smiled faintly. "Then we're evenly matched."
That night, Victoria lay awake again—but this time, she wasn't afraid of the cage.
She was studying the lock.
And Nyangtsi, alone in his study, stared at the city below and finally admitted the truth he had fought since the beginning:
He had built his empire on control.
But Victoria Diva was teaching him something far more dangerous.
How to lose it—without falling apart