LOGINAlex’s POV The rain starts before we clear the club. I don’t mind. Rain makes people look down, and looking down is exactly what I need from her. Emily is warm against my chest, her head lolling against my shoulder, her breath slow and even. The water did its job. I swipe a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear, and I look at her. Really look at her. The curve of her cheek. The fullness of her lips. The way her lashes rest against her skin. I have been blind to her. That is the truth of it. I have watched her for years, and I never once saw her. Not the way I see her now, limp and helpless in my arms, beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with her will and everything to do with her surrender. She was a virgin. I knew that. I never touched her because I never wanted to. Virgins are work. They cry. They ask questions. They want to be loved, and love is a currency I have never had any interest in spending. I had women who knew what they were for. That was en
Reeds POV The GPS blinks on Zach’s screen, a blue dot crawling across the map toward the river. Emily’s phone. Still moving. “She’s at the club,” Zach says, eyes locked on the screen. “We’re close. Five minutes, maybe less.” I don’t answer. My hands are tight on the wheel, knuckles white, and the road is a blur under the tires. The storm’s rolling in, dark clouds stacked on the horizon, wind shoving the car sideways, but I don’t slow down. I can’t. “Reed.” Zach’s voice cuts through. “Breathe.” “I’m breathing.” “You’re not.” He glances at me, then back at the screen. “We get there, we get her, we get out. No heroics. ” “No heroics,” I repeat, but it’s a lie and we both know it. The club appears on the rise ahead, white columns, manicured lawns, the flag snapping hard in the wind. I take the turn too fast, tires screaming, and pull into the lot. Zach’s already out before I kill the engine, laptop under his arm, scanning. “Her car’s still here,” he says, pointing. “Blac
Emily’s POV The next morning I drive with the windows down, cold air cutting through the sweatshirt I threw on. My phone buzzes on the passenger seat. Zach. One word: urgent. I don’t open it. I toss the phone into the cup holder and keep my eyes on the road. Whatever Reed and Zach are fighting about, I don’t have the bandwidth for it today. I’ve got my own mess to clean up. The country club sits on a rise above the river, white columns and manicured fairways, the kind of place my family has owned for three generations. I park in the lot and sit for a moment, watching the flag snap in the wind. Then I get out and walk inside. My father is waiting in the private dining room, Sophie beside him. He opens his arms when he sees me. “My sweet Emily. You’re safe. Come here.” I cross the room and let him hug me. His arms are warm, his grip tight, and for one second I almost believe him. Then Sophie makes a sound — a scoff, sharp and disbelieving — and his face hardens. “Sophie. Hold it
Reeds POV I’m not playing anymore games. I slam my shoulder full force into the door and the frame gives with a loud crack. Zach barely has time to stand before I’m on him fuming with rage. My one hand fists in his shirt and I drive him back against the wall hard enough that the drywall dents. Cocking my other hand back to unleash my frustration. By slamming my punch through the drywall next to his head. Zach is like a brother to me I don’t want to hurt him but I also can’t believe that he would do any of this without a damn good explanation. “Where the fuck is she?” I seethe with my jaw clenched. Eyes locked on him like a fixed target. He looks up and sighs like he’s begging for mercy mercy, which I’m in no mood to give right now. Then shoves me off with a quick slam to my chest and swings a right hook. Clever bastard. The punch lands solid on my jaw and pain stings red. “So it’s like that Zach? Really. If you want to play games I’ve got nothing better to do right now. But you
Emily’s POV I pull off at the next exit, the glowing sign of a hotel catching my eye. I deserve something decent tonight. The lobby is quiet, the lighting warm. I check in without much conversation and take the key card for room 223. Upstairs, the room smells clean, like fresh linens and faint citrus. I drop my bag, kick off my shoes, and head straight for the bathroom. The shower is glass and marble, the water pressure strong... thank god. I turn it on hot and step under the spray. My mind drifts back to Reed though as if my body won’t let me forget the pleasure of him in the shower. The way he pressed me against the tile that night, water running down both our bodies. His hands gripping my hips, his mouth hot against my neck. I turn the dial hotter, letting the heat bite into my skin the same way his touch did. My breath catches. I stay there longer than I need to, letting the memory wash over me. When I finally get out, I wrap myself in one of the thick white towels and tip
I wake up to a dull headache at the forefront of my face. I roll over and embrace the warm sheets, then suddenly feel the urgent need to pee. My bare feet hit the cold tile and I realize they’re gritty and dirty from dancing the night before. Part of me can’t believe I danced for a bunch of men at a club. Another part of me feels a chip on my shoulder for finally doing something reckless and not feeling guilty about it. I make my way to the kitchen and reach for my phone. The screen lights up. My stomach drops. “Oh my god, did I really post that?” I tap the photo. There I am in that tight black dress, long dark hair falling over one shoulder, pale skin glowing under the neon lights, Zach smiling beside me like a proud idiot. I look good. Really good. Scrolling through the comments, I see the usual questions. “Where have you been? Has the bride made a return? Who’s the new beau?” One friend wrote, “Is that Zach from high school? Didn’t realize you guys were still friends.” Another







