And suddenly I understand.
This isn’t what happened to Dahlia.
Dahlia was impulse. Opportunity. A woman who fit his type—blonde, blue-eyed, petite—asking for a cigarette outside a club. Wrong place. Wrong time. He followed her into an alley and that was it. No courtship. No flowers. No Instagram videos with two million views.
But me?
The ring burns hotter against my chest. Dahlia’s ring. Warning me. Trying to tell me something I’m only now understanding.
I don’t even fit his type. Dark hair. Brown eyes. Mixed. He was hunting Alex that night—someone who looked like Dahlia. Someone blonde and blue-eyed and small.
I’m the exact opposite.
So why me? Why the flowers, the public claiming, the designer dress, the fundraiser with donors and officials? Why build a narrative around someone who doesn’t match his pattern?
He’s not hunting me.
He’s keeping me.
And that’s so much worse.
Because I don’t know what he wants. Don’t know what role I’m supposed to play in whatever this is. Dahlia was disposal. I’m being displayed. Collected. Made into something.
The serpent at my spine coils tighter.
What does he want from me that he didn’t want from her?
I grab my bag with shaking hands. Force my legs to move. One step. Two.
I have to walk past him to leave. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t step aside. Makes me squeeze past. Close enough that I can smell his cologne. Feel the heat of him. Everything about him radiateswrong-wrong-wrong.
My hand fumbles with the door handle. Slippery. My palms are sweating.
The door closes behind me.
I lean against the wall in the hallway. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t process what just happened.
I need Alex. Need to call her right now. Need to hear her voice tell me we’ll figure this out, that we’ll find a way, that I’m not alone.
But I can’t tell her.
Can’t. Because Alex will try to stop this. Will do something reckless. Will storm into Dom’s office or confront Marcus or get herself hurt trying to protect me. She already hit him with a glass door. She’s already too close to this danger.
And if Dom finds out I told her—if he thinks I’m not playing along, not complying—he’ll destroy both of us.
I have to protect her. Even if it means lying to her. Even if it means facing Friday alone.
Even if it means making the same mistake that almost destroyed us. Deciding what she can handle instead of trusting her to choose.
The ring is burning. Actually burning. Hot enough to hurt.
The serpent at my spine coiling tight. Squeezing.
My intuition screaming one word over and over.
Danger danger danger danger?—
Friday.
