He said his energy could realign mine—that physical connection was part of the process.
I said no. He said I was resisting. He said my words were blocks, my thoughts were sickness.
I wanted it to work. So, I did what he said.
My throat closes.
It’s all there. The script. The manipulation. The god complex.
The same exact pattern used to ruin Jules.
After, he told me I should be proud—that I’d finally “released.” But the pain came back worse. I felt poisoned. And when I tried to tell people? They had the fucking nerve to say maybe I wasn’t ready to heal. Everyone said Phoenix would never do something like that. They said to look at how many women he’s helped.
Fuck Phoenix Marrow.
I’m moving before I even mentally make the decision. I grab the keys to my truck off my dresser and stalk through the house, straight to the front door. Both my sisters are gone at the moment, so there’s no one to reason with me. Which is good. I don’t want reason tonight.
The glow ofPhoenix Marrow Wellness Institutelooks more like a damn temple than a medical facility. A towering building in a ridiculously expensive part of the city, it’s all white stone and glass, lit with soft golden LEDs like it’s a beacon of salvation. The sign out front glows his name in clean, minimal font, as if Helvetica can mask the rot inside.
I kill the headlights and slide lower in my seat. My eyes lock on the front doors. It’s late, almost eight o’clock. But a man like Phoenix never keeps typical business hours. They don’t close for five more minutes.
People trickle out, each one glowing like they’ve just had their sins washed away. Women, and even a few men come out clutching canvas tote bags stamped with his stupid logo. They all look so happy. Or tired. It reminds me of the way Jules started looking tired. Gaunt. Worn. If you’re actually looking, you can start to see the signs that it’s getting too late. That the delusion—that he himself is the cure—has gone too deep.
It makes me want to vomit.
And then he appears.
Phoenix Marrow himself.
He’s rich, wildly so now, but he dresses like he’s going for sexy Jesus cosplay. Flowing linen, hair tied back, sandals on his feet. He has this polished, cinematic smile he plasters across TikTok and magazine covers. His aura screams confidence, purity, wisdom. To his followers, he’s God in five hundred dollar flip-flops.
To me? He’s a walking con artist with blood on his hands.
I watch him descend the stairs, phone in hand, bodyguard flanking him like a shadow. Big guy, neck the size of my thigh, scanning the parking lot like he knows predators are real but hasn’t considered one of them might be five-foot-six in a thrift store skirt and perfect eyeliner.
Phoenix slips into the backseat of a black Mercedes with tinted windows, the kind of car reserved for mob bosses and heads of state. The driver shuts the door with reverence, like he’s sealing a holy relic in a vault.
“Fucking snake,” I whisper under my breath.
This is why I haven’t gotten him yet. He’s never alone. Always cocooned in security, luxury, worship. He doesn’t walk into grocery stores by himself or stand in Starbucks lines. Phoenix Marrow doesn’t even touch his own damn car door.
I write it all down anyway. Bodyguard’s height, stance, patterns. License plate of the Mercedes. Timing of his exit.Everything matters. Anything could crack open an opportunity later.
The fantasy itches at the back of my brain: getting him alone at my table. Pinning those manicured hands down with my daggers. Reading him his sins while his mask of false divinity crumbles.
I almost smile, imagining his face slack under the black bag.
But reality smacks me quick. I’ve spent nearly a year trying to get to this asshole. Speaking engagements—guarded. His personal address—untraceable. The doors at his stupid institute—watched and guarded by security.
I pick up my phone and look up the number. They close in one minute, so I quickly hit call and wait.
“Phoenix Marrow Wellness Institute,” a man answers. He sounds annoyed that I would dare call sixty seconds before closing. I don’t blame him. “How can I help you attain better wellness?”
“Yeah, I was wondering if I could book some private sessions with Phoenix?” I ask, trying my best not to let my disdain for the man leak into my tone.
“We’re currently booking out ten months,” the man says, dismissively, as if he knows I won’t follow through. “And we do require a non-refundable booking fee of five thousand dollars, due at the time of reservation.”
I practically choke on my own tongue. Five fucking thousand dollars? I’ve never had that amount of money sitting in my bank account. “What about scholarships?” I ask, my words coming out too high-pitched. “Or grants? Do you ever have any of those?”
