Finally, I stand up slowly, making sure he sees every inch of what I'm not wearing and walk past him toward the house. Close enough that my shoulder brushes his arm.
He's warm. Even through his shirt, I can feel the heat of him.
"I'll be in my room," I say. "If you need me."
I don't look back, but I swear I hear him exhale. Like he's been holding his breath.
Good.
The afternoon passes slowly. I try to read, but I can't focus. I do my skincare routine, but that only kills an hour. I stare at my phone, at the apps I've deleted three times and downloaded twice, at the ghost of a life I'm not allowed to live right now.
I'm so fucking bored.
And boredom makes me stupid.
I download Instagram again. Just to look. Just to see what's happening, what people are saying, whether anyone even notices I'm gone. My DMs are a cesspool I don't touch, but my feed is fine. Normal. People living their lives while I'm trapped in this glass cage with a man who won't even look at me.
I'm not going to post anything. I'm not that dumb.
But then I see it: a story from Maren, one of the girls who was supposed to come to Cabo with me. She's on a yacht somewhere, champagne in hand, laughing at something off-camera. The caption saysliving my best lifewith a little sun emoji.
And something in me snaps.
I open my camera. Frame the shot carefully with just the window, the ocean, the dramatic cliffs. Nothing identifying. Nothing that saysBig SurorSterling propertyor anything specific. Just vibes. JustI'm somewhere beautiful too, bitch.
I post it before I can think twice.
For exactly thirty-seven seconds, I feel better.
Then the door to my room slams open.
Cesar is standing in the doorway, and he doesn't look unreadable anymore. He looks furious.
"What did you just do?"
My heart slams against my ribs. "Nothing."
He crosses the room and snatches my phone out of my hand. I don't even have time to react—one second I'm holding it, the next he's scrolling through my story, jaw tight, eyes hard.
"Nothing," he repeats. "A photo that shows a distinctive cliff formation visible from exactly one property on this stretch of coast. That's nothing?"
"It's just a picture of the ocean."
"It's a location marker. Anyone with Google and ten minutes could figure out where you are." He's deleting the story as he talks, fingers moving fast. "Do you have any idea what you just did? Do you have any idea how easy you just made it for him to find you?"
"No one's going to—"
"The man who wants to kill you has been tracking your posts for months. He knows your patterns. He knows your aesthetic. He knew when you got your nails done in January because you posted a photo of your coffee cup and he could see the reflection of the salon in the window." Cesar steps closer, and I step back, and suddenly my shoulders are against the wall and he's right there. "This is not a game, Diamond. This is your life."
"I know that!"
"You don't. Because if you did, you wouldn't have just broadcast your location to two million people including the one who wants to watch you die."
I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. He's right. I know he's right. The fear I've been pushing down for days is suddenly right there, clawing at my throat, and I can't breathe.
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
"Sorry doesn't keep you alive."
