“You want freedom, O’Neal? Trust me—there’s no such thing.”

~$~

The lounge is warm. Too warm.

Reo’s in his usual spot—behind the massive mahogany desk he treats like a throne. His suit is tailored, his shirt crisp. He doesn’t look up. He’s busy—signing something, flipping through contracts like they’re paper napkins instead of livelihoods.

But I still step in. I don’t knock. I don’t run.

Not this time.

"Reo."

My voice is quiet, too quiet. But it’s the only strength I have left.

Slowly and coldly, his eyes flick up. “What is it now, Jennie?”

I don’t know what I expected—maybe a little bit of patience, maybe exhaustion—but not this....