“Seb.”
He blows out a breath. “She went to see Millie.”
I stare at him like the words don’t compute. “She what?”
“I told her not to,” he blurts, like he’s bracing for the fallout. “She was adamant. Said she needed to hear Millie out. I didn’t think—”
“Jesus Christ,” I snap, raking a hand through my hair. “Why the hell would she do that?”
“I don’t know,” Seb says, his eyes closing, fists balling tight. “I didn’t think she’d actually—”
“Pull up Millie’s number and give me your phone.”
“What—?”
“Give-Me-Your-Fucking-Phone.”
Seb flinches, but he doesn’t argue. He fumbles with the screen, thumbs flying, then passes it to me with her contact open. I hit call and pace like I’m about to burst out of my own skin.
The last hope I had that Millie would answer like a sane person, confirming Violet is fine, shatters immediately. She picks up on the first ring, her voice breaking apart like glass.
“Seb... Elliot—he has Violet—I’m sorry, I should never have... he wouldn’t listen.”
“It’s not Seb,” I cut in, my voice like a whip. “Where is she?”
She gasps when she realizes it’s me, her words crumbling into sobs. “My apartment—he won’t let her leave. She’s locked in there with him. I don’t know what else to do...”
The line goes dead, and my heart stops.
“Millie? Millie!”
I hit redial, but there’s no answer.
“Fuck!” I shove the phone back into Seb’s chest.
“What did she say?” he asks, eyes wide, already knowing.
“She said Elliot’s got Violet in her apartment. Locked them in. He’s not letting her leave.”
Seb looks like he’s going to be sick.
“What’s the address?” I bark.
He rattles it off, and I’m already turning. “Stay here,” I tell him. “Make something up—tell them I got pulled away. If she calls or texts, you call me. Immediately.”
I bolt through the restaurant’s entrance, heart hammering, vision narrowed to a tunnel.
Albert, stationed outside, steps out of the car, reaching for the door handle.
“Keys,” I snap. “Get in the passenger seat. I’m driving.”
“Sir—”
“Now, Albert!”
One glance at my face, and he tosses the keys over without another word.
Before he even shuts the door, I’m already starting the engine accelerator to the floor, one hand gripping the wheel so hard my knuckles ache. “Three twenty-four Clinton Street, Albert. Navigate. Don’t talk. Just guide.”
