The summit had ended hours ago, but the weight of it still clung to Izana like smoke.
The mansion was quieter now. The guards had rotated shifts. The estate lights glowed low and golden against the night. Outside, the world of men with guns and grudges continued to turn.
Inside, the doors to the Grimshaw estate were closed.
Leah walked half a step behind Izana as they moved down the corridor. He would never allow her to guide him in front of the others — never show weakness — but now that they were alone, his pace had slowed.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
Enough for her to see.
"You should rest," she said gently.
"I'm fine," he replied automatically.
She didn't argue. She simply reached for his hand.
That made him glance at her.
Not irritated. Not defensive.
Just tired.
"You haven't stopped thinking since you walked into that room," she murmured. "You got what you wanted. Confirmation. Loyalty. Fear."
He exhaled slowly.
"They needed to see me," he said. "Not rumors. Not whispers."
"And now they have."
They reached the bedroom door. Leah pushed it open.
The room was dim, lit only by a single lamp near the bed. The curtains were half drawn, moonlight spilling in across marble floors. It was quiet in a way the summit had not been. Quiet in a way that felt almost fragile.
Izana stepped inside and rolled his shoulders slightly, as if shaking off the day.
Leah watched the subtle wince that followed.
"You're in pain."
"I've had worse."
"That wasn't my question."
A faint breath of something almost like amusement escaped him, but it faded quickly. He reached for the collar of his jacket, but his fingers hesitated for a fraction of a second — stiffness in his ribs.
Leah stepped closer without asking.
"Let me."
He didn't protest.
She slid the jacket off his shoulders carefully. Her fingers brushed the fabric near the stitched wound beneath his ribs. Even through the layers, she felt the heat there.
"You pushed yourself too far tonight," she said quietly.
"They needed to remember."
"And what about what you need?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he crossed to the bed and sat down, leaning forward slightly with his elbows resting on his knees. His red eyes — sharper lately, colder when necessary — were distant now.
Not calculating.
Just tired.
Leah moved in front of him.
"You don't have to keep proving anything here," she said softly.
His gaze lifted to hers.
Something in his expression shifted.
Not the Grimshaw boss.
Not the man the underworld feared.
Just Izana.
"I don't know how to turn it off," he admitted quietly.
Her heart tightened.
She stepped closer and brushed her fingers through his hair — a small, familiar gesture. He closed his eyes for half a second at the contact.
"Then don't," she said. "Just rest."
She helped him lie back against the pillows. He moved carefully, jaw tightening briefly as he adjusted against the mattress.
When he settled, she turned to dim the lamp further.
"Stay," he said.
The word was low. Not commanding. Not sharp.
Just honest.
She looked at him.
"I'm not going anywhere."
She slipped under the covers beside him.
For a moment, they lay facing each other in silence.
Then Izana shifted closer and wrapped an arm around her, pulling her gently against his chest.
The movement was instinctive.
Protective.
Needing.
Leah exhaled softly as she settled against him. His heartbeat was steady beneath her ear. Slower now than it had been at the summit.
His hand rested at her waist at first.
His fingers tightened slightly in the fabric of her nightdress.
As if grounding himself.
He lowered his face slightly, breathing in the scent of her hair.
"I forgot what this felt like," he murmured.
She tilted her head slightly. "What?"
"Quiet."
Her chest rose and fell slowly.
"You don't have to carry everything alone," she whispered.
He didn't answer that.
Instead, his hand shifted.
Without thought.
Without intention.
It slid from her waist… down… and came to rest flat against her stomach.
The gesture was simple.
Unconscious.
Possessive in the gentlest way.
Just holding her closer.
But the second his palm pressed there—
Leah froze.
It wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't visible to anyone who didn't know her.
But Izana knew her.
Her breathing changed.
Just slightly.
The air in her lungs stalled.
And then something inside her cracked.
A memory.
A room that smelled of antiseptic.
White sheets.
Loneliness.
Silence.
The absence of a heartbeat she had only just begun to believe in.
Her throat tightened.
She hadn't thought about that day in months. She had buried it beneath relief at his return. Beneath politics. Beneath survival.
But his hand—
Right there.
So naturally placed.
As if protecting something that had once been there.
A tear slipped free before she could stop it.
It fell silently across her temple and into her hairline.
Izana felt it.
His body stilled.
He pulled back slightly, just enough to see her face.
"Leah?"
His voice sharpened — alert.
His thumb brushed her cheek.
Another tear followed.
His eyes narrowed faintly.
"Did I hurt you?"
She shook her head quickly. "No."
His hand was still resting against her stomach.
He noticed that.
He felt the way her muscles were tense beneath his palm.
Slowly — very slowly — he lifted his hand away.
The air shifted between them.
Not hostile.
Not cold.
Heavy.
His gaze searched her face carefully.
That look in her eyes…
It wasn't pain.
It wasn't fear.
It was grief.
Old grief.
Deep grief.
His jaw tightened.
"What is it?" he asked quietly.
She swallowed.
"It's nothing."
He didn't believe that.
"Leah."
His tone wasn't sharp. It wasn't the voice he used in the summit room.
It was steady.
Careful.
She pressed her forehead lightly against his chest, avoiding his eyes.
"Just memories," she whispered.
"Of what?"
There was a pause.
Too long.
He felt it.
Her fingers curled slightly into the fabric of his shirt.
She didn't answer.
The silence stretched.
His mind began turning — not like a strategist, but like a man trying to understand what he had missed.
Two years.
Two years he had been gone.
Two years she had endured alone.
His hand hovered uncertainly near her waist now, not sure where to rest.
"I wasn't here," he said quietly.
It wasn't a question.
She closed her eyes.
"No," she whispered.
The word carried more weight than he expected.
He felt it settle into his chest.
"I don't need details tonight," he said after a moment. "But don't shut me out."
Her breathing wavered.
"I'm not trying to."
"Then let me in. When you're ready."
There was no demand in his voice.
Only something steady.
Something open.
She nodded faintly against him.
"Can we just… stay like this?" she asked softly.
His arm tightened around her — carefully, mindful of his ribs.
"Yes."
They lay there in silence.
Her breathing slowly evened out, though every so often it caught, as if her body hadn't quite settled.
Izana did not fall asleep.
He stared at the ceiling instead.
His mind replayed the moment his hand had rested on her stomach.
The way she had stiffened.
The way her eyes had filled instantly.
The kind of grief that doesn't come from something small.
His jaw hardened slightly.
Something had happened.
Something during those two years.
Something he had not been told.
He shifted his gaze down to her as she slept.
Even in rest, there was a faint tension in her expression.
He brushed a strand of hair away from her face.
"I should have been here," he murmured so quietly it barely existed.
Outside, the mansion remained calm.
Inside, beneath the quiet warmth of the blankets, a truth waited.
Not explosive.
Not loud.
But powerful enough to change everything when spoken.
And for the first time since returning to reclaim his empire—
Izana Grimshaw realized there was a part of the past he had yet to face.
And whatever it was…
It had left its mark on her.