“What’s that?” Marco asked casually, still riding the wave of their banter. He didn’t feel the shift. Not yet.
“Nothing,” she said.
Too fast. Too light. Too practiced.
She grabbed a glass to keep her hands busy. Poured. Polished. Played the part. But the lie was destroying her calm.
The laughter around her continued, filling the room like white noise. She nodded along. Responded in kind. Kept moving.
But her fingers kept drifting back to her pocket. Over and over.
As if the paper might change. As if meaning were mutable.
It hadn’t been there before.
Someone left it for her.
Someone knew exactly where to place it, so she’d find it.
Andthatwas the thing that made her skin prickle.
From the shadows,he watched.
Arden.
Little Fire.
Her laugh from earlier echoed in his mind—sharp and bright, cutting through the club’s noise like a blade.
It had pulled every eye to her. With that faint crease of unease shadowing her features, she commanded attention.
He’d seen it the moment she found the receipt. The pause in her hand. The furrow in her brow. That split second when her confidence faltered—enough to let something else slip through.
Perfect.
He’d planned it that way.
The receipt wasn’t justpaper.
It was a message.
Precise. Deliberate.
Her name, scrawled in a neat line, unmistakable.
He’d placed it beneath the coaster with care.
Not hidden. Not obvious. Enough to catch her off guard.
And it had worked.
Now, she carried it.
He saw the way her fingers skimmed over it in her apron pocket when she thought no one was watching.
But he was always watching.
Her reaction had beeneverything he wanted.
