I can barely keep my eyes open. My legs buckle, useless beneath me.
Everything inside me screams to fight, to run, but my body won’t listen anymore.
My eyes water, a tear sliding down my cheek. I mumble, “Chase,” over and over as if he’ll be able to hear me. The more I say it, the more it sends him into a blind fury. “I’m sorry. Please let me go,” slips out like a prayer before the room spins and the nausea swirls.
The last thing I feel is his hand tightening around my wrist, dragging me forward, dragging me towards hell.
Chapter thirty-three
Chase
I take a slow sip of my wine, pushing my lobster bisque around my plate.
She’s late.
It doesn’t matter what her feelings are towards me; it’s unprofessional, and she knows that. The truth settles hard on my chest. While I was doing everything in my power to get her in the same room, she seems intent on avoiding me completely. I take another slug of my wine, waving for the server; I’ve held off ordering the mains for long enough.
A quick sweep of the table and the conversation is lively. No awkward small talk or desperate grabs at the weather. This deal already has success stamped all over it. Martin and Austen, seated to my right, are deep in a debate about Bitcoin and blockchain ethics, like they’re competing in some kind of geek-off.
It’s only me, it seems, who’s fixated on the glaringly empty chair.
Martin’s gaze flicks my way, narrowing in on me, like he’s reading between the lines—the ones scribbled across my forehead in frustration.
“I’m not sure where Violet’s got to,” he says, scoring an instant slam dunk. “Apparently, she told Sally she had to drop by somewhere before joining us; otherwise, she would’ve come with us. It’s... not like her.”
His worried glance drifts further down the table to a woman I recognize from earlier—mid-twenties, around Violet’s age.
“Sally,” he calls, adjusting the knot in his tie. “Did Violet say where she was going?”
Sally frowns, picking up her phone and checking it. “No, sorry. She just said she had to see a friend, and she’d be here by seven.”
She lifts a brow at the guy sitting beside Violet’s empty chair. He shrugs. “I just texted her, but she hasn’t read it yet.”
Jealousy sparks before I can reason with it—over a damn text.
Christ, I’m completely unraveling. Violet has me losing my goddamn mind.
“It’s fine,” I say, like I’m chewing cardboard. “I imagine she got caught in traffic.” The server appears by my side, pencil and pad poised. I gesture vaguely at the sirloin and snap the menu shut. Not that it matters. These days, all I seem to be eating is humble pie—served cold, with a generous side of long-overdue karma, courtesy of the many women I’ve left hanging over the years.
I try to shove the thought aside—until my gaze lands on a suspiciously quiet Seb.
Seb, who could turn a tax seminar into a tequila-fueled rave. Seb, who hasn’t touched his wine and keeps flicking glances at his phone like it might bite him.
He looks up, meeting my frown with one of his own.
And just like that, something inside me drops. A slow, crawling dread unfurls in my gut, like the ground beneath me has started to crack and I’m the last one to notice.
I drag back my chair, the scrape of it loud enough to turn a few heads. Seb catches the movement immediately, rising like he’s been waiting for the cue.
“Outside, now,” I say under my breath, jerking my head toward the hallway beyond the private suite.
He doesn’t hesitate.
We step into the corridor, the sound of silverware and easy laughter muffling behind the heavy door.
“What’s going on?” I demand, my tone sharp, vibrating with something ugly in my chest.
Seb hesitates—too fucking long.
