I’m proud of you. You were the talk of the night.
I open TikTok to check the damage.
Well, it turns out that perpetual bachelor Griffin Calloway has finally tied the knot. While Mrs. Calloway isn’t fresh out of high school like most of Griffin’s catches, her bachelor’s degree in Shibari is probably hot off the press. Dazzling in Dior, Selena Calloway enchanted despite a non-existent personality that left the stage wide open for the woman’s impeccable style. I wonder how this country-fried Barbie managed to nab one of Manhattan’s finest. Hashtag, waiting for the sequel to this cliffhanger.
Now I’m feeling sick.
If Selena sees this...
I press the number for my car service.
This fucking night could not get worse.
26
SELENA
I cried the whole way home. I’m still crying on the elevator ride up to the penthouse.
I should have known better. Griffin is exactly what he said he was: a player. I didn’t realize the extent of his past, but after what that woman said tonight, I feel like I’ve been living in a curated lie.
The morning had been intense. He’d been primal, almost desperate, losing himself in me three times. I wanted it, too. I liked making him lose control. But now, after hearing about "diamond handcuffs" and his "allergic reaction to permanence," I feel like a fool.
Oh, god—I’m going to be sick.
I race through the door, swiping my key card with shaking hands. I make it to the bathroom just in time to vomit up the ginger ale. I strip out of the crystal Dior dress, leaving it in a heap, and pull on sleep pants and a camisole.
I collapse onto the couch and, against my better judgment, watch the TikTok video again.
I wonder how this country-fried Barbie managed to nab one of Manhattan’s finest. Hashtag, waiting for the sequel to this cliffhanger.
I feel shattered. Griffin has been texting all night, but I don’t have the energy to reply. The influencer, the exes, Joe, El—they all belong in Griffin’s world. I don’t. I’m just a placeholder.
I’ll be a single mom navigating life alone. Rich, yes, but isolated.
Griffin’s last text pops up.
I’m almost home. — I love you, Sel.
It’s the first time he’s said it in a text. Seconds later, there’s a knock at the door. It’s strange—Griffin has a key card. We let the staff go home for the weekend so we could be alone.
“Did you forget your key?” I ask, pulling the door open.
I don’t see Griffin. I see Landon Emile Drake standing there with a hunting rifle pointed at my face.
For some terror-induced reason, my first thought is the diamond necklace I’m still wearing. It’s on loan. I can’t lose it.
“Landon?” I breathe.
He doesn’t say a word. He grabs me by the arm, manhandling me toward the elevator.
“The front desk...” I start, hoping someone will see me half-naked and being dragged by a man with a gun.
Landon’s eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot. He smells like stale sweat and old fast food. He’s clutching the rifle with white-knuckled intensity. The elevator opens on the basement level. The parking garage.
He grabs me by my hair—still pinned in that elegant updo—and drags me toward a black van.
No, no, no.
