“That’s the fun part.” He tilted his head. “No one knows. They were Crow-signed, but it wasn’t a standard team. More like… handpicked. My concierge described the lead as ‘terrifying and oddly handsome,’ so that narrows it down.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
He kept talking. “Apparently someone set off a panic alarm from one of the guest rooms. They sliced through the building’s clearance like it was tissue. Emergency overrides, elevator locks, the works. Went straight to my floor, found my guest suite empty, and left.”
I stared at him.
Atticus’s brows pulled together. “You’re white.”
“Beach city,” I said weakly.
“This wasn’t supposed to stress you. I was going for ‘see, good thing we left.’ Fresh air. Distance. No panicked security teams pounding on your door at three in the morning.”
“What time,” I asked. “Exactly.”
He squinted. “Feed said 03:07. Why?”
The timestamp in my head lined up with a text.
Daddy’s coming.
Don’t scream or be difficult, baby.
I couldn’t feel my hands.
Atticus rounded the island, a relaxed expression.
“We made the right call,” he went on. “Malice is quiet, discrete, and very far from Villain. Take the win. I’m heading to the gym downstairs to bully my lungs into working. Doctor’s orders.” His gaze softened again. “Your orders are to rest, eat, and go outside. Sun is free. I highly recommend it.”
“I should work,” I said. “I’ll fall behind.”
“You won Thorne a city’s worth of water leverage yesterday. You’ve earned one day where the only thing you negotiate is how much sunscreen to use.”
The corner of my mouth ticked up.
He dipped down and kissed the top of my head, quick. “There she is. Library eyes. Try not to overthink the ocean.”
“I’ll do my best.”
He left with a wave toward the door, already pulling his comm out as he walked. The moment the lock clicked, my composure cracked.
He’d gone.
To Villain. To Atticus’s place. In the middle of the night.
My mind painted it too easily: Vince in all-black, ring glinting, eyes flat. Security falling back. Elevators overridden. The guest room door swinging open onto cold sheets and a bathroom light I’d forgotten to turn off.
He hadn’t stayed in safety.
He’d come. And I hadn’t been there.
By mid-morning, a personal stylist arrived with three clothing racks and an assistant. They arranged dresses in colour gradients, slipped bikinis onto velvet hangers, laid out sandals like a catalogue shoot.
I let them fuss, let them talk about cuts and palettes and what would photograph well against Malice’s water. It gave my brain something shallow to bounce off instead of sinking.
In the end, I picked a black bikini and a sheer white cover-up that hid just enough. Sunglasses did the rest.
Outside, Malice was bright enough to hurt.
