I do. Someone’s brushing more shimmer along my temples now, catching the light. Making me sparkle. Making me visible.
My stomach turns.
Maybe… I could still cancel.The thought surfaces again, more desperate this time. Fake the flu. Move to Utah. But my chest knows better. There’s no pretending this away. This is the night everyone’s been waiting for. The night that’s supposed to make all of this—Dave, the bank, the threats—finally stop. An ending, one way or another.
“Gorgeous,” one of them murmurs, stepping back to admire their work.
And I hate that I’m part of it. I hate that my pulse won’t slow down, that my hands keep shaking even though I keep telling myself to be brave.
Because I don’t know the plan. I know it’s dangerous—mafia dangerous, money laundering dangerous, the kind of dangerous that gets people killed. I know Caleb will be there. I know Anton and the others will be somewhere nearby, watching. I know they’ve been preparing me for something, teaching me things I never thought I’d need to know.
But the game plan? I’m flying blind.
Nobody gave me the strategy rundown.
What if they walk into gunfire?
What if they die trying to protect me?
The thought crawls up the back of my neck and won’t let go.
What if this is the last time I see Dima, Lev, and Boris—their laughter, their quiet, their impossible kind of loyalty that made danger feel like belonging. They’re the reason I don’t flinch at shadows anymore. The reason the silence in my apartment used to feel unbearable.
And Anton not walking back out—hits like a kick to the ribs. Something in my chest splinters, sharp and sudden. And theworst part? I wouldn’t even know what to say if I had the chance. No last words. No clean goodbye. Just everything I never said sitting heavy in my throat.
I blink hard and stare at the mirror light until it burns. My throat does that stupid ache thing, the one that warns you it’s about to betray you. I force a small inhale, pinch the inside of my wrist—just enough to ground myself—and tilt my head like I’m checking my makeup instead of trying not to cry.
God, why am I like this? Emotional at the worst possible times. I should feel relieved that it’s almost over, that the chaos might finally quiet down. But apparently, near-death experiences have turned me into someone who cries over people who kill for a living.
Jasper circles me slowly, the way he does with his designs before a runway show. Critical eye, tilted head, one finger tapping his chin. He stops in front of me, studies my reflection, then moves behind me again.
“Almost,” he murmurs. “Almost perfect.”
He steps closer, reaching for the neckline. His fingers adjust the emerald satin, tugging it down slightly on one side, then the other.
“Okay, we need to showcase the assets. Up, up, up… there we go. The girls are being shy tonight.”
I swat his hand, whispering through clenched teeth, “It’s achildren’s charity gala, Jas. Not the damn Victoria’s Secret revival.”
He grins, utterly unbothered. “Children love sparkle.”
“Children don’t need trauma.” I tug the neckline higher, glaring at him in the mirror. “The theme issurvive the night, notseduce a trust fund.”
That gets him. His smile falters for half a second, just long enough for me to see it—the flicker of worry behind the eyeliner and sarcasm.
He catches my reflection, then claps his hands once.
“Okay, Everyone out! I need a minute with my disaster bride here. Out, out, out—before I start crying in front of professionals.”
They exchange looks but obey instantly, gathering brushes and cords like soldiers retreating from a war they don’t want to fight. The perfume cloud follows them out the door, leaving the room quiet for the first time all day.
When the latch clicks, Jasper exhales and leans against the counter. “You alright, sugar tits?”
I huff out a laugh, but it doesn’t reach far. “Define alright.”
He studies me, head tilted. “You’ve got that look. The one where you’re about to stress-bake enough carbs to feed a small army.”
I pick at a rhinestone near my neckline. “Baking is productive anxiety.”
