Chapter 3

I have his wrist in my grip before I've even finished speaking. He winces — good.

The party hasn't caught up to what's happening yet, still humming along with music and clinking glasses, but between the three of us, everything has already shifted. His hand tightens on her shoulder out of reflex, and she flinches. That's enough. I twist his wrist — not to break it, just to make my point clear — and repeat myself, each word slower and heavier than the last: let her go.

Recognition crosses his face too late. He releases her, steps back, but keeps his eyes locked on mine, warning me I'm making a mistake. I tell him he already made his, positioning myself slightly in front of her without really deciding to.

He laughs without humor, insisting she's with him. I ignore him entirely and ask her directly if that's true. Her silence answers louder than words could.

He presses her to confirm it. Her fingers grip her dress, her breath hitches, and she manages a whispered yes — an unconvincing lie. I almost smile, telling her to try again. Panic flashes across her face as she begs me to stop, and I push for the truth instead. She says she can't — not won't, can't — and that distinction changes everything for me.

He steps forward again, done with pretense, telling her they're leaving, reaching for her. I intercept him harder this time, shoving his hand away hard enough to make him stumble. Conversations nearby start to quiet — people are noticing now. Good.

I warn him off. He straightens, anger rising, telling me I don't know who I'm dealing with. I tell him he doesn't know what line he just crossed. The tension between us pulls tight enough that for a second I think he'll actually try something — but he backs down instead, muttering that this isn't over. I tell him it never began for him. He glares, then vanishes into the crowd.

Irrelevant now. I turn back to her immediately.

She hasn't moved, still standing like the floor might vanish beneath her. I ask if she's hurt. She shakes her head too fast — another lie. I step closer, telling her quietly she doesn't need to lie to me. Her breath catches, and for a second I think she might actually break and tell me the truth. Instead she steps back, putting distance between us again, like always, and asks why I'm doing this.

I tell her she needs help. She says she didn't ask for it. I say she doesn't have to. She argues I don't even know her; I say I know enough. She insists that's impossible. I tell her it's not, not when someone walks into a room full of predators looking like prey.

She goes quiet, visibly struck.

I close the distance again and tell her to come with me — to leave, now. She's stunned, asking if I'm serious. I confirm I am. She refuses immediately, saying she can't, without explaining why — just that same invisible wall going back up.

I study her more closely — her tension, the way her eyes keep darting to the crowd, like she's waiting. For him. Or for something worse.

I ask if she's afraid of him. She doesn't answer, but her silence confirms it anyway. Something cold and deliberate settles in me.

I tell her whatever's keeping her tied to him ends tonight. She says I don't understand. I ask her to explain, and she says she can't — the desperation in her voice sharper than anything else so far. I realize this isn't hesitation; it's real fear — not of me, but of consequences waiting for the wrong move.

I start to say her name gently, but she's already retreating, telling me to stay out of it. I tell her it's too late for that — I don't stay out of things that matter. She snaps that she doesn't matter to me. I tell her she's wrong — she does, without hesitation. The words land solidly between us, and for a moment her composure cracks, like she wants to believe me, like she almost does.

Then fast footsteps sound behind her. She whips around, panic overtaking her face, and I follow her gaze — to him again, this time flanked by two larger, meaner-looking men clearly not there for talk. The mood shifts instantly.

I tell her to stay behind me. She doesn't. She's already decided. She apologizes and bolts into the crowd, disappearing again before I can stop her.

I curse and move to follow, but the two men block my path, saying their boss wants to speak with me. I stop, glancing past them to where she vanished — gone again. My jaw tightens, but I turn my attention to them first, telling them coldly to move. One smirks, warning me not to make this difficult. I tell him he already has, cracking my knuckles as I step forward.

The party carries on around us, oblivious or pretending to be. That's about to change. Because one thing is certain: whoever these men are, whatever she's running from — they've just made themselves my problem. And that's the worst mistake they could have made.