Chapter 152 Levi's Line

Chapter 152 Levi's Line
Levi's POV

I've never once used my father's money to get something I actually wanted. That's always been the deal I made with myself, earn my own grades, make my own team, keep the Thorne name out of anything that mattered to me personally. Tonight, I break that rule without a second of hesitation.

"There's a guesthouse on the east side of our property," I tell Anya, pacing her living room while her mom hovers by the kitchen, arms crossed, watching us both like she's waiting for permission to agree with me out loud. "Private entrance, full security system, cameras on every approach. It's fifteen minutes from your work, ten from school. You'd have your own space. Nobody has to know you're there except my father's security team, and I trust every one of them."

"Levi." Anya says my name like a wall going up. "I'm not moving into your family's guesthouse because a man with a grudge against your dad wrote one creepy word on a piece of paper."

"He was in your bedroom, Anya."

"I know where he was." Her voice cracks, just slightly, before she steadies it. "I was there. I saw it. But running to hide behind your family's gate isn't going to make this go away, it's going to make it look like I can't survive without you fixing everything for me."

"This isn't about whether you can survive." I stop pacing, force myself to look at her instead of at the fear crawling up my own spine. "This is about whether you should have to survive something you didn't create, alone, in an apartment with locks that clearly aren't stopping anyone."

"So your solution is what, I disappear into your world completely? Become the girl who lives on the Thorne estate because she's too scared to have her own address?"

"My solution is you're safe." My voice comes out harder than I mean it to, frustration and fear tangled so tight I can't separate them anymore. "I don't care how it looks. I don't care what story anyone spins out of it. I care that the last time I let pride and appearances dictate how I handled something with you, it ended with a stranger flipping our photos face-down on your mirror."

That lands. I see it land, her shoulders drop half an inch, some of the fight draining out of her, replaced by something rawer.

"I've spent my whole life clawing for independence," she says quietly. "Refusing to be the girl who needs saving. And now the one time it actually matters, you want me to just, hand that over. Move into a guesthouse on your family's land like some kind of"

"Not some kind of anything." I cross the room, take her hands before she can finish that sentence with a word I know she'll regret. "This isn't me trying to own you, or manage you, or turn you into some story about a girl I rescued. This is me refusing to lose you to a man who's already proven he doesn't care about lines. That's it. That's the whole reason."

Her eyes well up, and she blinks hard like she's furious at her own tears for showing up. "I'm scared, Levi. I don't want to be. I hate that I am."

"You're allowed to be scared." I bring her hands to my chest, hold them there like I can transfer some of my own steadiness into her palms. "I'm terrified too. Every hour you're somewhere I can't see you, I'm picturing that note. I keep thinking about how much he already knows, your schedule, your apartment, your mirror, and I can't sit with that and pretend it's manageable from fifteen blocks away."

Her mom finally speaks from the kitchen doorway, voice quiet but firm. "Anya. Let him do this."

Anya turns, surprised. "Mom"

"I've been awake every night since that break-in listening for footsteps that aren't there." Her mom's composure cracks for just a second, exhaustion and fear breaking through the careful calm she's been holding all week. "I want my daughter somewhere with cameras on every door. I don't care whose name is on the property. Pride doesn't keep you safe, baby. It just makes the eulogy sound braver."

The word eulogy sucks all the air out of the room. Anya goes pale, and I feel my own stomach drop at the bluntness of it, but I'm grateful for it too, because it says the thing none of us have let ourselves say out loud.

"Okay," Anya whispers finally, so quiet I almost miss it. "Okay. I'll move into the guesthouse."

Relief crashes through me so hard my knees nearly buckle. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet." A shaky, unexpected almost-smile breaks through her fear. "I'm going to complain about the walk from the guesthouse to your actual house being too far, and you're going to have to live with that."

"I can live with a lot of things," I say, pulling her into my arms, feeling her finally exhale against my chest like she's been holding her breath for days. "As long as you're somewhere I know you're safe."

We move her things that same night, my father's security team arriving within the hour, professional and quiet, treating the whole operation like it's the most normal thing in the world instead of an emergency relocation born out of fear. Anya's quiet the entire drive to the estate, staring out the window at the streets blurring past, and I don't push her to talk. I just keep one hand on hers, steady, the way I promised.

The guesthouse is warm, secure, lit gold against the dark when we finally pull up the private drive. For the first time in days, I feel something in my chest loosen, not gone, not fixed, but manageable. Contained.

Then my phone buzzes.

I almost don't check it. I almost let this one moment of relief exist uninterrupted. But old instinct wins, and I glance down at the screen, expecting Marcus, expecting an update, expecting anything but what's actually there.

Cute new address. Guesthouses have windows too.

The gold light of the estate suddenly feels a lot less like safety, and a lot more like a stage with the curtains wide open.