Two days.
Two days until Ella is gone. Safe. Out of reach.
And then Violet will have nothing tying her to that apartment. Nothing keeping her exposed. Nothing stopping me from pulling her fully into my world—where I can see every threat before it reaches her.
She thinks she’s alone in this.
She’s not.
I lean back, eyes never leaving the screen.
Two days—and then Violet Cole will be exactly where she belongs.
Chapter 24
Target on My Back
Violet
I’m kneeling on the floor, folding one of Ella’s sweaters for the third time because my hands won’t stop shaking long enough to do it right. Lavender detergent clings to the fabric, clean and familiar and painfully normal. Home, distilled into cotton and warmth.
This wasn’t supposed to feel like an ending.
Ella’s sprawled across the bed behind me, legs swinging, and excitement bubbling out of her like it might lift her straight off the mattress. “Langport is going to be insane, Vi. Like—actually insane. Do you think the dorms have views? Sam says—”
“Yeah,” I say, smoothing the sweater again before placing it in the suitcase. “It’s going to be amazing, kid.”
My voice sounds steady. My chest feels like it’s caving in.
My phone buzzes.
The sound snaps through me like a gunshot. I grab it too fast, heart already racing, and dread curling tight around my spine when I see Cami’s name.
CAMI:You need to see this. Now.
There’s a link beneath it.
I tap it, my breath stalling as the screen fills with a live press conference. A police podium. Flashing cameras. A familiar blue-and-white NYPD seal stamped across the front like a warning.
“We are here today to inform the public about a dangerous new synthetic drug known asZ—”
The words hit before I can brace for them.
“—which has been linked to multiple overdoses, including the tragic death of socialite Alessandra Moore.”
My stomach drops. Multiple overdoses?
That wasn’t possible. Zephyra wasn’t lethal. Not like that. It was controlled. Clean. A little too long-lasting, sure—but safe.
A reporter shouts from the crowd. “Can you confirm the drug was laced with fentanyl?”
The official nods, grim and practiced. “Yes. This batch was highly lethal. We urge the public to avoid it at all costs.”
My vision blurs. Someone made a copy. Someone poisoned it. And now they’re calling it mine.
Another reporter leans in. “Do you have any leads on who distributed the drug to Ms. Moore?”
The pause feels deliberate.
