LOGINIris’s POV "You'll pay for it? On your salary? That vase was worth more than you'll make in five years." A pause, and then his voice dropped into something colder and more dangerous. "Get out of my sight before I decide to take the cost out of your hide instead of your paycheck." The stylist was trembling now, her eyes fixed on the door like she expected him to burst through at any moment. "That's Mr. Kessler," she whispered. "He's the head of security. You don't want to get on his bad side." "Is anyone on his good side?" She didn't answer, which was answer enough. The makeup artist arrived a few minutes later, her face carefully blank as she set up her supplies. If she had heard the commotion in the hallway, she gave no sign of it. She worked quickly and skillfully, applying foundation and blush and something shimmery to my eyelids, and when she was done I looked like a different person entirely. The woman in the mirror was beautiful in a way I had never been before, her eyes br
Iris’s POVI was standing at the window watching a gardener trim hedges into perfect squares when the door opened behind me and two women walked in like they owned the place. They probably did. Everyone here seemed to own the place except me. The bath had been drawn at precisely eleven in the morning, though I had stopped asking how they knew when I would be ready for it. I had stopped asking a lot of things. How they knew my dress size and my shoe size and the exact shade of green I had once told Marcus I wanted for our guest room. How they knew I took my coffee with cream and no sugar and preferred peonies to roses. How they knew the name of the obscure perfume I had worn on my wedding day and then never been able to find again. It was sitting on the vanity now in its frosted glass bottle, waiting for me like it had always been there. The two women didn't ask if I wanted a bath. They didn't ask anything. The older one, a severe woman with iron-gray hair and hands that looked stro
Marcus’s POV It wasn't a killing blow. I wasn't strong enough for that, and even now, even after everything, I wasn't sure I had it in me to take a life. But it was enough to make him choke and stagger backward, his hands flying to his neck and his eyes bulging with shock and pain. The crowbar clattered to the asphalt at his feet, and he went down on one knee with a strangled sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a scream. I was out of the car before he hit the ground. My legs were unsteady and my head was spinning from the crash, but I forced myself to keep moving because the second man was already reaching for his pistol. He was fast, faster than I expected, and his hand was on the grip before I could close the distance between us. I dove for the crowbar on the asphalt instead, my fingers closing around the cold metal just as he cleared his holster and raised the gun. The crowbar connected with his forearm before he could pull the trigger. There was a crack that echoed off
Marcus’s POV I fumbled for the door lock, my fingers clumsy with adrenaline and terror, and then I stopped because something cold clicked into place in my brain. My father's voice was still coming through the phone, telling me to stay calm and wait for his people to arrive, but I wasn't listening anymore. I was looking at the headrest of my seat and remembering a video I had watched years ago, one of those survival tips you scroll past at two in the morning and think you'll never need. The headrest was designed to detach. You pressed the button at the base and pulled upward, and the two metal rods that held it in place came free with it. They were sharp at the ends and solid enough to do real damage, and I wrapped my fingers around the leather cushion and pulled it loose with a single hard yank. The rods slid out of the seat with a metallic scrape that seemed impossibly loud in the quiet of the wrecked car. The men outside were still walking toward me with their measured, unhurrie
Marcus’s POV I wanted to scream at him and tell him that his arrogance and his assumption that he was always the smartest person in the room had put Iris in danger more than once. But yelling at my father wouldn't find my wife, so I swallowed my anger and forced myself to focus. "The black sedan. Do you have a description? A make and model? Anything that could help us track it?" "I have photos. My people took them as a precaution. I'll send them to you now." The photos arrived a moment later, and I stood on the sidewalk outside Meridian Press staring at them on my phone. The car was a dark sedan, unremarkable in every way, the kind of vehicle that blended into traffic and vanished from memory the moment you looked away. But there was something about it that made my skin prickle because I had seen this car before. Not recently, not in any context I could name, but somewhere in the back of my mind a memory was stirring that I couldn't quit
Marcus’s POV The letters were a dead end, but I didn't know that yet. I had spent three hours in the conference room at Meridian Press with Rachel the junior editor hovering in the doorway like she wasn't sure whether to offer me coffee or call security. The stack of fan mail had yielded exactly what I expected it to yield: obsession dressed up as admiration, threats wrapped in flowery language, and one unsigned note that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. None of it gave me a name or an address or anything I could take to the police. What it gave me was a pattern. The letters had started arriving six months ago, right around the time the book came out, and they had increased in frequency over the past few weeks. The sender knew details about Iris's life that weren't public knowledge, like her favorite restaurants and her writing habits and the exact route she took to her parents' house. The kind of details that could only co
Iris’s POV His fingers tightened around my throat. “I know.” The words came out low, steady, and far too calm for the way his hands were pressing into my skin. I clawed at his wrists, my nails digging in, my body twisting beneath him as I tried to pull free. “I know what you’ve been doing.” My
Iris's POVIt's finally the dreaded Friday. I was standing in front of my closet, staring at the armor I'd carefully selected: high-necked black blouse, long sleeves, trousers that buttoned at the waist instead of anything that flowed or teased, when my phone buzzed on the dresser.A text from Marc
Iris’s POV The café on Fourth was the kind of place that made you want to be a better person. Exposed brick walls, hanging ferns, mismatched vintage chairs that somehow looked intentional rather than chaotic. The smell of fresh bread and lavender drifted through the air, and every table had a tiny
Iris's POVI wrote.The words came faster than they had in weeks, pouring out of me like water through a broken dam. My fingers flew across the keyboard, barely keeping pace with the scenes unfolding behind my eyes. A new hero emerged from the haze, darker than Daniel, sharper around the edges. He







