“Marcus.” She turns, smooth and professional. “I was just getting to know your lovely date.”
“I see that.” He moves closer. His hand pressing harder against my spine. Claiming. “Monopolizing the prettiest woman in the room, Madame Speaker?”
“Just showing her around.” Alaina’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “These fundraisers can be overwhelming for newcomers.”
“Dylan’s tougher than she looks.” Marcus’s hand slides lower on my back. Not quite appropriate. Not quite inappropriate. “Aren’t you, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart.
My skin crawls.
“The Councilwoman from the Third District was looking for you,” Alaina says to Marcus. “Something about the permit applications.”
It’s a dismissal. An attempt to pull him away from me.
Marcus doesn’t move.
“She can wait.” His thumb traces a small circle through the fabric on my back. Slow. Deliberate. Like we’ve done this a thousand times. Like my body belongs to him. “I’ve barely spent any time with my girl tonight.”
My girl.
I go still.
Two million people think I’m his girl. Think I smiled at those flowers. Think I want this.
The narrative is already written. Has been since that Instagram video. Since Dom forced me into this dress. Since I walked into this ballroom wearing his choice of fabric against my skin.
She was his girlfriend. She left him. She moved to DC for a job. So sad.
No one will question it. No one questions it when mixed girls from Mount Airy disappear into better opportunities. That’s the story everyone already believes. That’s what we’re supposed to want—to escape, to move up, to leave Philadelphia behind.
And if my body never turns up? Well. Philadelphia is a big city. People disappear. Especially people from the wrong neighborhoods. People whose mothers don’t have lawyers. People whose fathers are already dead.
People like me.
“Dylan?” Alaina’s voice cuts through. Concerned. “Are you alright? You look pale.”
I’m not alright. Standing in a ballroom full of people who know exactly what Marcus is and can’t stop him. Wearing a dress that cost more than my rent, picked out by a serial killer. Collecting business cards and escape routes because that’s all these women can offer me.
Not justice. Survival.
But I can’t say any of that.
“Just tired,” I manage. “It’s been a long week.”
“Of course.” Alaina reaches out, squeezes my hand one final time. “It was lovely meeting you, Dylan. I do hope we’ll see each other again.”
I hope you survive long enough for us to see each other again, she means.
“Thank you,” I say. “For everything.”
She nods. Walks away. Leaves me alone with Marcus.
His hand is still on my back. Warm. Heavy. Claiming.
“What were you two talking about?” he asks. Casual. Light. Like he doesn’t already know.
“Politics,” I say. “She was explaining how fundraisers work.”
