“I’d like you to accompany him.”
The words hang in the air. Heavy. Terrible.
Accompany him.
Not attend as firm representation. Not network on behalf of Draven & Associates.
Accompany him.
Like a date. Like his girlfriend. Like the narrative he’s been building—Instagram, flowers at my apartment, now this.
“Sir—” My voice comes out wrong. Strained. “I’m not sure that’s appropriate?—”
“Appropriate?” Dom’s voice sharpens. Ice under the professional tone. “You work for this firm, Dylan. Marcus is our client. This is work.”
“But—”
“Is there a problem?”
The threat is clear. Crystal clear. Refuse and lose everything. My job. My access to Dom’s operation. The investigation. Any chance of finding out what happened to Dahlia and the others.
Refuse and Dom will destroy me.
Marcus is watching this. Enjoying it. That smile playing at his lips. He knows I can’t say no. Knows Dom’s trapped me perfectly.
“This is an incredible opportunity for you,” Dom continues. Softer now. Reasonable. The velvet glove over the iron fist. “Networking with city officials, major donors, the firms that run this city. The kind of connections that could determine your entire career trajectory.”
“Plus,” Marcus adds, “it’ll be fun. Good food, open bar, dancing.” That smile widens. “I promise you’ll enjoy yourself.”
I won’t.
“Besides,” Marcus continues, “after that Instagram video, people are expecting to see us together. My donors have been asking about you. About the woman who made me wait outside her building with flowers.” He smiles. “They think it’s romantic.”
Two million views.
Two million strangers think I’m dating him.
ThinkI smiled at those flowers instead of screaming.
ThinkI want this.
My mom probably saw it. My law school classmates. Everyone I’ve ever known now thinks I’m willingly with a serial killer who makes my skin crawl. He’s already rewritten my story. Already made me his in the eyes of everyone who matters.
And now he’s making it real.
I want to vomit.
“If I’m representing the firm at a major event—” I try. Desperate. Grasping. “—I should have support. Alex from accounting has excellent social skills for donor relations?—”
“This isn’t a group outing, Dylan.” Dom’s voice turns cold. “Marcus requested you. Specifically. As his personal guest.” He emphasizes personal. “Alex from accounting wasn’t invited.”
I try a different angle. “But preparing for a black-tie event—the dress, hair, makeup—I’ll need help?—”
“Already arranged.” Marcus sounds so pleased with himself. “I’ve got my designer ready to take your measurements. We’ll get you fitted this afternoon. I want you to look perfect.”
Perfect. That word again. The one that means whatever he decides it means. The one that requires my body to cooperate with his vision.
I’m doing that thing where I catalog horror like evidence. Designer fitting. Measurements. Strangers’ hands on my waist, hips, chest. Marcus watching. Deciding. Approving.
