"It is now."
A knock at the door interrupts our mutual admiration society.
"Ms.Winters?"A voice calls."Your car has arrived."
My stomach drops."This is it."
"This is it," Harper agrees, hugging me carefully to avoid messing up her work."Go.Get your confession ya-ya’s out.Get your man.We'll be here with ice cream if it goes badly."
"And champagne if it goes well," Claire adds.
"What if it goes medium?"
"Then both.We're not amateurs."
I take one last look in the mirror.
The woman staring back looks confident, sophisticated, like someone who belongs at engagement parties with billionaires.
She also looks terrified.
Perfect.
"Okay," I tell my reflection before heading out."Let's go confess to a felony."
The car is ridiculous—a black town car that screams money and discretion.
The driver holds the door like I'm someone important instead of a forty-one-year old psycho in designer shoes.
As we pull away from the inn, I see the flowers Luke sent glowing in the windows, Buttercup's face pressed against the office glass, my sisters waving from the porch.
Everything I love in one frame, about to be risked on one truth.
"To Seattle, Ms.Winters?"the driver asks.
"To Seattle," I confirm."And possibly to doom."
"Very good, ma'am."
He says it like people request doom delivery all the time.
Maybe in Luke's world, they do.
I guess I'm about to find out.
20
PLAYER TWO HAS ENTERED THE GAME
LUKE
Seattle knows how to put on a show when it wants to.
Tonight, it wants to.
The Fairmont Olympic’s grand ballroom is glowing with soft golds and coppers, the chandeliers throwing diamonds across every surface, the velvet-lined tables gleaming under the weight of extravagant centerpieces and champagne flutes that cost more than some people’s rent.
Outside, the November air is crisp and clear—the kind of rare Seattle night where the stars peek out from behind the city’s usual curtain of gray.
