Married to my stepbrother boss.

Chapter 1: Echoes of Grease

POV: Lina Hale

The smell doesn't wash off. You can scrub until your skin is raw, but the diner stays with you. It’s in the pores. In the hair. I walked home with the phantom scent of burnt decaf and old fry-trap grease clinging to my wrists like a second skin.

I fumbled my keys, dropped them on the table, and just stood there. I didn't reach for the light switch.

My feet were throbbing. Not just a dull ache, but a sharp, rhythmic stabbing behind my left heel that made every step feel like walking on broken glass. I didn’t name the pain anymore. It was just a roommate I couldn't evict.

I did the sweep anyway. I didn't have to think about it; my eyes just moved. Screwdriver jammed in the window frame? Check. Loose board on the fire escape? Still there. It wasn’t anxiety—it was the only way I knew how to breathe. Some kids learn to ride bikes; I learned which floorboards groaned.

The phone buzzed.

Unknown. Of course. I let it vibrate against the wood three times before I picked it up.

"Yeah."

"Lina Hale." The voice was flat. Bored. "You’re late. Again."

"Check’s in the mail," I lied. My eyes were already under the bed, staring at the shadow where the backpack lived.

"We’re done with checks." A car door slammed on his end—a heavy, expensive sound. "Five minutes out. Be there or don’t. It’s easier for us if you’re cornered anyway."

He hung up. No goodbye. Just the click of the line going dead.

My hands didn't shake. I hated that about myself. I pulled the bag out, checked the dictionary—three hundred bucks still tucked inside the hollowed-out pages—and grabbed my jacket. Zip. Done.

I’ve always travelled light. No photos. No junk. My mother’s only legacy was the memory of a beige coat walking away at a bus station. My father was just a blank white box on a birth certificate. People talk about "freedom," but they usually say it from the safety of a living room. Freedom just felt like being cold and alone.

Then I heard it. A low, heavy idle on the street below.

I edged toward the window and peeled back an inch of the curtain. Black sedan. Double-parked. Two guys climbed out—boots, heavy jackets, the kind of clothes you wear when you're planning on getting dirty. One of them looked up, and for a second, I thought our eyes met through the glass.

I didn't wait.

I bypassed the hallway and the elevator—the elevator was a coffin. I went for the window. The rain hit me like a slap to the face, thin and mean. The fire escape was a slick, rusted mess. I kept my weight on the balls of my feet, praying the metal wouldn't shriek.

I was halfway to the second floor when my front door gave way above me. A heavy *crack* of wood on wood.

I dropped the last six feet into the alley, my boots hitting the wet pavement with a jarring thud. My left knee buckled into a pile of stinking garbage, but I scrambled up. I knew the gap in the chain-link fence by heart.

"She’s in the alley!"

I didn't look back.

The rain was coming down harder now, blurring the streetlights. My lungs were on fire—years of cheap cigarettes catching up to me at the worst possible time. I dodged behind a row of delivery pallets, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Every turn I made felt like a trap. I could hear the footsteps behind me, but they weren't getting closer. They were just... maintaining.

They weren't chasing. They were herding.

They wanted me at the river.

I broke cover and hit the boardwalk. The wood was black and slick with rain. To my left, the warehouses were dead; to my right, the river was a churning, black abyss. The wind cut through my jacket like it wasn't even there. I’ve always hated the cold. It’s a stupid thought to have when you’re about to die, but it wouldn't leave me.

The Old Iron Bridge was a hundred yards out. If I could get to the shipping containers on the far side, I had a chance.

The sedan got there first.

It swung sideways, tires screaming on the wet wood, blocking the entrance. Both doors flew open. Two sets of flashlights cut through the dark, blinding me.

I skidded to a halt.

The third guy was behind me now, his breathing heavy, a length of lead pipe swinging by his side. I looked at the fence—razor wire. I looked at the railing—thirty feet of air, then the water.

They closed in. Slow. Patient. They knew the math.

"End of the road, Lina." The guy in front sounded almost sorry. "Hand over the bag. Come with us. Maybe you walk away."

He was lying. You could hear the hollow ring of it.

I looked at the water. It looked like ink. I looked at the three of them.

There was no land exit. Going with them was a one-way trip to a shallow hole.

I stepped up onto the railing.

He lunged, his fingers grazing my ankle for a split second, but I was already leaning into the dark.