Chapter 6

​​The whiskey burned as it slid down his throat, but the fire inside him blazed hotter. Hezekiah watched him with a mix of curiosity and caution, her dark eyes scanning his face for any sign of hesitation. None came. The man before her—determined, wounded, and quietly seething—was a different version of the one she’d known.

“So, what’s your plan?” she asked, swirling the amber liquid in her glass. Her voice carried a mix of intrigue and concern.

He leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath. “It’s not enough to argue with them. They’d just lie or make excuses. I need real proof. Once I have it, I’ll confront them. Not here, not now, but in a way they can’t escape.”

Hezekiah tilted her head, curiosity piqued. “And you think exposing them will make you feel better?”

He shrugged, his lips pulling into a bitter smile. “It’s not about feeling better. It’s about showing them I’m not a fool. And it’s about ensuring they face consequences.”

The conversation was momentarily interrupted as laughter and music from the party filtered in through the closed door. Hezekiah glanced toward it, then back at him. “You sure this isn’t just whiskey talking? Revenge has a funny way of eating people alive.”

He met her gaze, his eyes steady and cold. “This isn’t revenge, Hezekiah. It’s justice.”

Hezekiah studied him for a moment, her fingers lightly tapping the rim of her glass. The fire in his eyes was unmistakable—both unsettling and magnetic. She knew that determination, that relentless need to settle scores. It was a dangerous road, one she herself had walked before.

"Justice," she repeated softly, almost to herself. Her gaze flickered down to her glass, and then back to him. "Justice has a way of blurring lines. You think you're fighting for what's right, and then one day, you wake up realizing you've crossed them."

He didn't flinch, but his jaw tightened. "You're speaking from experience?"

Hezekiah hesitated. The memories she had buried so deeply started clawing their way to the surface—the screams, the blood, the overwhelming guilt. She pushed them back down, locking them away.

"Let's just say I've seen what it does to people," she replied, her tone guarded. "And I’ve seen what it does to those around them."

His lips pressed into a thin line. For the first time that evening, a shadow of doubt crossed his features. "So what are you saying? That I should just let it go? Walk away?"

She set her glass down with a soft clink, leaning forward. "I'm saying, be sure this is worth it. Be sure that when it's all over, you won't lose more than you gain. Because people like us..." she trailed off, her voice thick with meaning. "We don't get to walk away clean."

For a long moment, neither spoke. The air between them was heavy, the distant hum of the party fading into the background. Finally, he straightened, his resolve hardening again.

"Maybe you're right," he said, his tone quieter but no less firm. "But I've already started this. If I walk away now, they'll win. And they’ve taken enough."

Hezekiah nodded slowly, understanding him in a way she wished she didn’t. "Then you’d better be ready for the fallout," she said, her voice almost a whisper. "Because once you go down this path, there’s no turning back."

He held her gaze, his expression unreadable. "Funny," he said after a moment. "I didn’t think you’d care."

She leaned back, folding her arms across her chest. "Maybe I don't. Or maybe I see a little too much of myself in you."

Her words lingered in the air as he reached for the bottle, pouring another measure of whiskey. But this time, he didn’t drink it. Instead, he swirled the liquid, staring into its depths as if searching for answers.

"Do you regret it?" he asked finally, his voice low.

"Every damn day," she admitted, the weight of her words hanging between them. "But sometimes, regret’s the only thing that keeps you human."

The weight of Hezekiah’s words pressed against him, heavy and unyielding. For the first time in years, Darius felt a crack in the armor he had built around himself. He didn’t know what disturbed him more—the truth in her voice or the fact that she seemed to understand his pain better than anyone else ever had.

"Regret keeps you human, huh?" he murmured, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. The whiskey glass dangled loosely in his fingers. "Then maybe I don’t want to be human anymore."

Hezekiah’s breath hitched at his confession, but she quickly masked it. "You think shutting it off will make it easier?" she asked, her voice edged with challenge. "It won’t. It’ll just make you colder, emptier. And eventually, you’ll wake up wondering if you’ve become the very thing you hate."

His head lifted, his gaze locking onto hers. "And what about you, Hezekiah? What did it make you?"

The question sliced through her defenses, but she refused to let it show. She leaned forward, matching his intensity. "Someone who knows exactly what it feels like to lose everything," she said, her voice steady despite the storm swirling inside her. "And someone who knows it’s not too late to choose differently."

Darius stared at her, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken pain and understanding. Finally, he let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head.

"You make it sound so simple," he said, his voice tinged with bitterness.

"It’s not," she admitted. "But it’s worth it."

For a moment, he seemed to consider her words, his eyes searching hers for something—maybe hope, maybe answers.

For a moment, he seemed to consider her words, his eyes searching hers for something—maybe hope, maybe answers. She could see the wheels turning in his mind, the battle he was fighting within himself. But before he could respond, the muffled sound of laughter and music from the party filtered through the door. The world outside this room was still spinning, oblivious to the storm raging between them.

"You should get back out there," Hezekiah said softly, breaking the silence. "People will notice if you’re gone too long."

His jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the whiskey glass. "Let them notice," he said, his voice low and resolute. "I don’t care what they think."

"But you care about the company," she countered. "And whether you like it or not, appearances matter in your world."

Her words struck a chord, and he sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "You’re right," he admitted grudgingly. "I hate that you’re right."

Hezekiah allowed herself a small smile. "That’s what I’m here for—reminding you of the inconvenient truths."

He chuckled, a sound so rare it startled both of them. "Inconvenient truths," he repeated, shaking his head. "You’re full of those, aren’t you?"

She shrugged, her smile widening just a fraction. "Somebody has to be."

For a moment, the tension between them softened, replaced by something lighter—something that felt almost like hope. Darius set his glass down and stood, straightening his tie. He looked at her, his expression still serious but less guarded.

"Thank you," he said simply.

Hezekiah tilted her head, surprised. "For what?"

"For reminding me that I’m not the only one carrying ghosts," he said. "And for not letting me drown in mine."

She met his gaze, her eyes steady. "We all have ghosts, Darius. But you don’t have to face them alone."

He nodded, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He knows he's a little drunk but he can stilll remember it.

Hezekiah stood, smoothing her dress as she prepared to leave the room. But before she could step toward the door, Darius turned back, his hand resting on the doorframe.

“Come with me,” he said, his voice steady but laced with something she couldn’t quite place.