The bus stop was down the block, but the thought of standing there, waiting, watching precious minutes tick by while every second dragged me closer to death by Killian Vale's disapproval? Impossible. I yanked my phone out, thumbs shaking so badly I had to retype my location twice, and ordered the first Uber I could find.Three minutes.Three minutes felt like three hours.I paced the sidewalk, heart thundering so hard I could feel it in my throat. My wet bun was already coming loose, pulling at my scalp with every jerk of my head as I turned to look for the car. A woman walking her dog gave me a concerned look, probably wondering why I appeared to be having a breakdown on the sidewalk at ten something in the morning.When the car finally pulled up—a silver Honda with a cracked windshield—I all but threw myself inside, not caring that I was probably dripping on the seat."Vale Tower," I rasped, breathless. "Please hurry. I'm really, real
The second my thumb hit send, my stomach tightened like I'd just pulled a trigger.The words stared back at me from the screen—Let's meet. We need to talk. Cold. Unforgiving. Final.I set the phone down on my lap, but my eyes wouldn't move from it. The blue glow felt harsh against my skin in the dim room. My mind was already ten steps ahead, rehearsing every possible thing I needed to say to him. The accusations that had been building like pressure in my chest. The questions, turning over and over until they'd worn grooves in my thoughts. The demand for answers he'd never given me—answers I wasn't even sure I wanted to hear.I'd tell him about Killian, about the deal he ruined, about how he used me without even blinking. Like I was nothing more than a tool to be picked up and discarded when he was done. I'd make him look me in the eye and explain why. Why me. Why now. Why he thought he could just—My pulse raced, a frantic drumbeat against my ribs. My breath felt uneven, catching in m
A message bubble lit up under his name, cheerful and oblivious. Just another one of his dry, stupid jokes—something about his dinner being so terrible he was convinced the restaurant was trying to assassinate him with undercooked chicken. He'd probably attached one of those ridiculous GIFs he was always finding, something animated and silly that was meant to make me laugh.Normally, I would've laughed. Would've rolled my eyes at his dramatics and typed something back in less than a minute, because that was what we did. That was our rhythm—he'd send me random observations about his day, and I'd respond with sarcasm or sympathy depending on what the situation called for.But not tonight.Tonight, the words looked wrong on my screen. Shallow. Hollow. Like they were written in a language I no longer understood.My thumb hovered over the keyboard, but the knot of guilt and anger in my chest refused to let me type. Every time I started to form a res
The apartment was dark when I slipped my key into the lock and pushed the door open, the familiar click echoing in the empty hallway behind me.Quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that pressed against your eardrums and made you hyperaware of every small sound—the whisper of fabric against fabric as I moved, the soft thud of my bag against my hip, the barely audible hum of the refrigerator cycling on.Milo's shoes were by the door, exactly where he'd kicked them off hours ago. The laces were tangled in the same careless knot he always left them in, one sneaker lying on its side like it had given up trying to stay upright. His school bag slumped against the wall like it had started the journey to his room but collapsed halfway there, defeated by the weight of textbooks and the exhaustion that seemed to follow teenagers everywhere.A faint sliver of light peeked out from under his door. I stepped closer, my socked feet silent on the floor, and pressed my ear to the cool wood. The soft
I blinked at him, my mouth parting but no sound coming out at first. My brain seemed to have short-circuited, unable to process what he was saying."Mr. Killian…" I managed finally, my voice thin and uncertain. "I think you understand how expensive they are."Finally—finally—his head turned toward me, and in the faint wash of the streetlamp I saw it. That faint tilt of his brow, the sharp edge of something that might have been amusement, though it wasn't quite a smile. It was the look of someone who found my concern both predictable and unnecessary."Miss Emery," he said evenly, his voice carrying that particular tone that suggested I was missing something obvious. "I was the one who handpicked everything. Of course I know what they cost."The words hit harder than they should have, slamming into me with unexpected force.Handpicked.My brain stalled completely, tripping over the image that word conjured: him, Killian Vale
I didn't dare to utter another word.The car was too quiet, too heavy with everything unspoken, and I wasn't sure my voice would even work if I tried to force something out. The silence pressed against me from all sides, thick and suffocating, like trying to breathe underwater. My throat felt tight, dry, like all the words I wanted to say—the apologies, the confessions, the desperate explanations—had jammed together in a knot that wouldn't budge no matter how hard I swallowed.Killian drove without a sound. His hands were steady on the wheel, long fingers relaxed but controlled, his gaze fixed ahead with the kind of focus that made the rest of the world disappear. His jaw was cut into that sharp line that looked carved out of stone, all angles and unforgiving edges. Even in profile, he looked untouchable, like a statue given breath but not warmth.The dashboard light caught the sharp bridge of his nose, the hollow beneath his cheekbone, casting shadows that made him look even more rem