Me:I know. And I'm sorry I disappeared without saying goodbye. You deserved better than that.
Ben:When you're better, if you want to talk, I'm here. No pressure. Just... I'd like to know you're okay.
Me:Thank you. For everything. For being kind when I needed it most.
Ben:Always. Feel better, evening star.
I set the phone down and stare at the ceiling.
Ben was good. Safe. Normal. Everything the Alphas aren't.
And I'm never going to see him again.
Because even if I survive this, even if I somehow figure out how to navigate this fucked-up situation, I can't go back to that life. Can't pretend to be normal. Can't date sweet Beta boys who bring me coffee and call me evening star.
I'm bonded to three Alphas whether I like it or not. And that bond is either going to save me or destroy me, but either way, it's permanent.
My phone buzzes again.
Dad:Called the police. Told them you're safe, with friends, that it was a misunderstanding. They weren't happy but they've called off the search. Marcus from the program called too. I told him you're dealing with a family medical emergency. He understood. Said your spot is open if you want to come back.
Dad:I don't like this, Vespera. But I trust you. Just please be careful. And call me tomorrow morning. I need to hear your voice.
Stephanie:Your dad told me you're okay. Thank god. I'm still in Columbus. Still here if you need anything. I know you don't want to talk to me but I'm not leaving until I know you're really safe.
The rejection marks burn.
My fever spikes again.
And somewhere deep inside, something shifts.
Not acceptance. Not forgiveness.
But maybe the first recognition that this is my life now.
And I have to figure out how to survive it.
sixteen
Corvus
Ishouldn'tbedoingthis.
The thought occurs to me approximately 2.3 seconds after I've already bypassed the security on her phone, but by then it's too late. Or rather, it's not too late—I could stop, could delete the remote access I've just established, could pretend I never had this idea.
But I don't.
Because knowledge is power, and understanding Vespera Levine has become the most complex problem I've ever tried to solve.
It's 2:47 AM. I'm in my room at the lake house, laptop open, her phone's data streaming to my screen in real-time. Dorian gave her the phone back yesterday as a "gesture of good faith." Oakley thought it was a good idea. Even I agreed—publicly.
But privately, I knew exactly what I'd do the moment she was asleep.
The initial data dump is extensive. Eighty-nine missed calls. Two hundred and thirty-four texts. Fifty-two voicemails. Her father dominates the numbers—desperation in digits. Stephanie not far behind. And then there's someone named Ben Rosen.
Fifteen calls. Sixty-four texts. Ten voicemails.
That's... excessive. Statistically anomalous for a two-week acquaintance.
