The doors slide open.
Empty. Waiting. A small box lined with mirrors so I can watch myself be taken.
“After you,” Marcus says.
His hand presses harder against my back. Not pushing. Not yet. Just... present. Reminding me he could push if he wanted to.
I think about Dahlia. Standing in an alley. His hands on her throat.
I think about the paralegal from Kensington whose LinkedIn still says Chicago.
I think about Alex, outside waiting, watching my blue dot on her phone, not knowing I’m about to disappear from a hallway with no cameras.
If I get in that elevator, I’m never coming out.
And I still can’t move.
My feet are frozen. My voice is gone. My body has shut down because it knows—it knows—that this is where women like me die.
The elevator waits.
Marcus waits.
And somewhere in the ballroom behind us, a hundred people drink champagne and pretend they don’t know exactly what’s happening in this hallway.
Seventeen
“Dylan!”
Alaina’s voice cuts through the hallway like a knife.
Marcus’s hand freezes. His jaw tightens.
Alaina strides toward us. Emerald suit. Patricia Joyce flanking her, and Maria Santos behind them. Patricia checking her Apple Watch like she just got an urgent alert.
Not rescue. Something else. Their faces are wrong—tight, professional, concerned in a way I can’t read.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” Alaina says. Not sorry at all. “But there’s been a situation. DA Foxglove’s office is calling for Ms. Wells. Immediately.”
My stomach drops.
Foxglove. The DA. Calling for me.
Is this real?
Did I do something wrong with the transition documents? Miss something in the compliance review? Is there actually an investigation and I’m about to be?—
Marcus’s hand is still on my waist. Tighter now. His fingers digging into my hip through the dress.
“The DA’s office? At this hour?”
“Apparently there’s been an ethics violation filed regarding the City Controller transition documentation.” Alaina’s smile is pure political steel. “They need Dylan’s files tonight. You know how Foxglove is about transparency.”
The transition documents. The ones I reviewed. The ones with my name on every signature page.
Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god.
“Dylan and I have plans.” Marcus’s voice is smooth. Conversational. His grip is not.
