Chapter 13
Rafe came to me the following morning and offered his resignation.
I refused it.
He looked surprised.
“I failed Elena.”
“Yes.”
“I trusted Marcella.”
“Yes.”
“I never told you about Thomas’s call.”
“Yes.”
He waited.
I understood what he wanted.
Punishment clean enough to finish guilt.
“No.”
Rafe frowned.
“You don’t get to disappear because staying feels harder.”
That was a lesson I was beginning to learn myself.
He would remain.
With less unquestioned authority.
With more responsibility.
He would help dismantle every remaining White Table channel.
And he would tell me every uncomfortable truth before deciding whether I wanted to hear it.
“I can do that.”
“I know.”
That was why he stayed.
Over the next month, the old faction collapsed faster than expected.
Most men had not believed in it as deeply as Marcella thought.
They believed in access.
Once Marcella lost it, nostalgia became less romantic.
Adrian Cross returned his proposed alliance terms.
I burned them unread.
The east harbor remained Bellandi.
Not because territory mattered more than people.
Because Elena died partly over men treating human relationships like pieces on a map.
I was done rewarding that logic.
The White Table pavilion was demolished.
Not dramatically.
Workers simply removed it.
Vivia watched from a garden window.
“What’s that?”
“An old table.”
“Why break?”
“Because people used it for bad decisions.”
She nodded.
“Get new table.”
I laughed.
Maybe.
A new table.
But not one hidden away from everyone else.
Later that week, the repaired dress returned.
The tear was stitched carefully.
The line remained visible.
Vivia ran one finger over it.
“USB gone.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I looked at her.
“Why good?”
She shrugged.
May you like
“Dress can just be dress.”
That sentence stayed with me longer than anything Marcella said.
