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Badly rendered pixels can’t dim his shine. Nothing can, really. It’s like the first time I ever saw him all over again—my breath gets sucked away, because it’s just so clear to me that he is what amanis supposed to be.

Strong in the face of adversity.

Brave in the heat of battle.

Present and capable, fierce and defiant, beautiful, rugged, untouchable.

I love him. Stupid as it may be, I still love him, even after everything. He’s my North Star.

But.

But.

Kir warned me something is coming.You wouldn’t believe me if I tried.

How many times has the world tried to tell me that Lukas Lazarev is a bad idea? Kir, Jillian, Lukas himself—again and again, I’ve be told that he isn’t just as bad as the stories say he is; he’sworse. A killer. A tyrant. A bloodthirsty beast.

I read that article myself, didn’t I? I know Jillian would never lie. She takes her job too seriously. Those arefacts.His wifediddie by poisoning. Shewasburied in an unmarked grave.

I believed there was more to the story then, and I still do now. I believedhimthen, and I still do now.

But believing something doesn’t make it true. And loving someone doesn’t make them innocent.

“What are you going to do?” I ask Kir in a weak voice.

He points at the metal folding chair set up in front of the computer monitor. “Take a seat and watch. You’ll see soon enough.” Then he steps out of the room and tugs the door shut behind him.

I perch on the chair, turning my eyes onto the screen. I wonder for a moment if the feed has stalled out, because Lukas hasn’t moved a muscle. He doesn’t even seem to be breathing.

Then the door to the interrogation room swings open, and Kir slips inside.

On screen, I watch his tall, lean frame enter the shot. He closes the door behind him, then turns to face his father. He stands there for a moment and the two men look at each other. Neither one’s face gives anything away.

Then Kir sighs, steps forward, pulls out the chair across from Lukas, and sits. Father and son, mirror images of each other, separated by decades and circumstance but cut from the exact same cloth.

“I always wondered what it would feel like,” Kir begins, “seeing you on that side of the table.”

Lukas nods. “Does it live up to expectations?”

“Not really.” Kir scrubs a hand over his jaw. “But it’s a start.”

Lukas’s head tilts to one side. “A start to what, though, I wonder?”

Kir’s eyes narrow. “Making things right.”

“That’s a noble mission statement for a man who just stole my company.”

“I didn’t steal a fucking—!” Realizing he’s shouting and rising out of his chair, Kir stops and settles back down. He takes a moment to compose himself. Fixes his tie knot, smooths back his hair, adjusts the clasp of his watch. When he’s ready, he looks back up at his father. “I didn’t steal anything,” he says again, calmer this time, though his voice is still scratchy through the audio feed. “I offered you a choice.”

“I chose her,” says Lukas.

“Yes,” Kir replies. “You did. And look where that’s gotten you.”

Lukas doesn’t take that bait. But he doesn’t look away from his son, not even for a second. He watches calmly, hands folded in his lap, posture as tall as ever.

It’s a miracle that the police even have cells that fit him, I think to myself. He’s so much larger than life that I can’t help but wonder if he could simply rip that door off its hinges and walk right out if he wanted to.

“I’m not here to gloat, you know,” Kir says after a frosty minute of silence has passed. “Contrary to what you might think, I don’t actually want to see you rot in prison.”