I stand there in the middle of Dom’s office, still smiling, still breathing, still alive.
And I’ve just agreed to work closely with the man who strangled a woman a week ago.
The man Dom is protecting.
The man who will now have regular, private access to me.
The ring pulses warm against my chest.
Or maybe that’s just my heartbeat.
Probably both.
Eighteen
“Well,if you look at it this way—” Alex rubs my back in slow circles while my knees are spread wide and my head is between them. “—you’ll have access to his financials.”
I can’t answer. Can’t lift my head. Can’t do anything but focus on breathing and not throwing up on the concrete courtyard floor.
My hands shake so badly I have to grip my ankles to keep them still. The tremors started the moment I walked out of Dom’s office. The moment I was alone in the hallway and didn’t have to perform anymore.
The mask cracked. And now I’m breaking.
“Breathe,” Alex murmurs. Her hand never stops that steady rhythm on my back. “In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.”
I try. God, I try. But my lungs won’t cooperate. Every breath feels like I’m drowning.
I just shook hands with a serial killer. Smiled at him. Giggled. Agreed to work with him alone.
And I was good at it.
That’s the part that’s making me want to vomit.
“On the plus side,” Alex says, still rubbing my back, “you didn’t actually vomit on his expensive shoes. So that’s a win.”
“Setting the bar very low there.”
“The bar is currently in hell. We’re adjusting expectations accordingly.”
Despite everything, a strangled laugh escapes. “That’s not comforting.”
“It’s not supposed to be. I’m just acknowledging that not puking on a serial killer is technically a professional achievement.”
How many times can I play this role before I forget who I am underneath?
This is what they don’t tell you about survival—that sometimes the mask fits so well you can’t remember what your real face looked like. That being good at pretending you’re safe is just another way of disappearing.
We’re sitting on one of three concrete picnic tables in the courtyard behind the building. The January air is sharp enough to hurt, but after the suffocating heat of Dom’s office, it feels like mercy.
There were a few other people out here when we first came out—associates from the third floor smoking by the dumpster, a paralegal on her phone pacing near the back door. But the cold drove them back inside one by one. Now it’s just us and the January air, sharp enough to hurt but private enough to fall apart.
The concrete is freezing through my slacks. My coffee from this morning sits forgotten beside me, cold and untouched. Traffic from the closest intersection—the usual Monday morning chaos of delivery trucks and SEPTA buses grinding past. Someone’s car alarm going off. The mundane sounds of Philadelphia continuing like nothing happened, like City Hall’s clock tower isn’t keeping time on another woman who won’t make it home.
I sit up too fast. The world tilts. Blood rushes from my head and for a second everything goes spotty.
“This is the worst thing that could have happened,” I hiss, looking around to make sure we’re still alone. The courtyard is empty. Just us and the cold. “I’ll never survive this.”
“You will,” Alex says it with so much conviction I almost believe her. “You’re still here. Still pushing through the concrete. That’s what dandelions do.”
