I tap it once, the sound soft but final. “And that’s just what I chose to print.”
The threat rips through the air, invisible but undeniable. Wells wipes his forehead with a trembling hand. Calloway finally opens his pages, confirming his worst fears. Laskin stares at the table like he’s trying to swallow the inevitability of it.
They know they’re mine.
I stand, smoothing the cuff of my shirt. “Enjoy your drinks, gentlemen.”
They won’t but that’s not my problem.
Their lives no longer belong to them. They belong to me.
Chapter 14
The Cost of a High
Violet
Cami’s aggressively cheerful ringtone buzzes across the kitchen counter while I’m wiping surfaces that are already clean. I stare at my phone for a second longer than necessary, debating whether I have the emotional bandwidth for whatever version of enthusiasm she’s bringing today.
It’s Cami. Ignoring her will only escalate the situation.
I answer with a sigh. “Morning, Cami.”
“Vi,” she purrs, stretching my name out like it belongs on a billboard. “Do you haveanyidea how brilliant you are? Like—Einstein-level genius. But hotter. Obviously.”
I snort despite myself. “I’m guessing this isn’t about how beautifully I reorganized the clinic’s supply closet.”
Her laugh is bright, sharp. Weaponized. “Please. No. I’m talking about Zephyra. People are losing theirmindsover it. Still.”
My hand stills mid-wipe. The cloth hangs frozen over the counter. “Still?”
“Yes,” she says, delighted. “Still thinking about their person. Still feeling it. Days later, Vi. Can you imagine? They’re calling it soul-bonding or some shit. It’s insane.”
Cold slides down my spine. “Cami. That’s not normal.”
“Well, obviously,” she says breezily. “That’s why it’s amazing.”
“That’s why it’s dangerous,” I snap. “If it’s lingering that long, it’s interacting with reward pathways it shouldn’t be touching. That’s not a party drug—that’s neurologicalinterference.”
“Oh my god, relax,” she says. “No one’s complaining. They’reobsessed. Do you know how many people have texted me asking when the next party is?”
I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose. “Cami, no.”
“Cami, yes,” she sings. “There’s a penthouse party coming up. Huge. Like paparazzi-on-the-sidewalk huge. The host is dying to have Zephyra there.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“People are still under its influence days later,” I say. “That means I don’t fully understand the half-life yet. I can’t keep producing something this potent without knowing what it’s doing long-term.”
“Then tweak it,” she says, unfazed. “You’re the chemist. Make it lighter. Softer. Just make sure there’s something to bring.”
My jaw tightens. “That’s not how this works.”
“It literally is,” she counters. “And no one’s gotten hurt.”
That you know of.
