That’s what breaks something in me. Not Marcus—I expected Marcus. But Edwards seemed decent. Seemed like he might be different.
No one is different. Not when it costs them something.
“Dylan,” Marcus’s voice has an edge now. “We should get another drink.”
“I’m good.”
But Marcus is already moving me. His hand tight. Steering.
“Excuse us,” he tosses over his shoulder at someone he bumps into as we near the bar. He holds up two fingers as we get closer. The bartender moving quickly at his wordless demand.
My chest caves inward. That sick drop—like missing a stair in the dark.
He keeps advertising my brilliance while stealing my voice mid-sentence. Everyone watching. Everyone thinking this is normal.
I’m a prop. An accessory. Proof of his desirability and power.
Never a person.
“You’re tense,” Marcus murmurs near my ear. “Relax.”
Relax. While he controls every word from my mouth. Every movement of my body.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“You’re perfect.” His hand slides up my back. Thumb against my spine. “Everyone’s impressed. They all want to know who you are.”
Who I am. Except he won’t let me show them.
“Marcus—”
“Let’s go somewhere quieter.” His voice drops. “The XIX has private dining rooms. More exclusive. The real players are up there.”
The jokes stop.
My stomach drops. The XIX—the restaurant on the 19th floor. Private rooms. No cameras in the hallways up there. I know because I’ve reviewed the building’s security protocols for Dom.
“We should stay?—”
“The Union League members are meeting upstairs.” He’s already moving. Hand firm on my lower back now. Pushing. “Important connections for your career.”
My career. The carrot he dangles while hiding the stick.
“I should text Alex—” I try. “She’s waiting for?—”
“Alex can wait.” His grip tightens. “This won’t take long.”
Won’t take long. The words men say before everything takes too long.
We’re in the hallway now. Marble floors echoing. Fewer people. The noise of the ballroom fading behind us like a door closing.
My body starts sending distress signals I can’t control.
First my hands. Trembling so hard I have to grip my clutch to hide it.
Then my legs. That weakness behind the knees, like I’ve been standing too long, like gravity is pulling wrong.
Then my stomach. Rolling. Clenching. The champagne I drank threatening to come back up.
