"We can negotiate terms in the morning," Stephen replied softly.
"No negotiation," she murmured, drifting. "Just... stay."
"We aren't going anywhere," I promised.
I felt her relax completely, the fight draining out of her.
I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening to the three of them breathe. Rowan was trusting us. She was letting us hold her after we’d hurt her.
I felt a small shudder run through her.
"What?" I asked quietly.
"It terrifies me," she whispered, barely audible. "I trust you. I trust all three of you with my life, with my mother's, but I barely know anything about you. It's all just instinct."
She squeezed Stephen's hand. She pressed closer to me. Her fingers tightened in Juno’s hair.
"Vance scares me," she confessed. "But this? Needing this? This scares me more."
I tightened my hold.
"Good," I said into her hair. "Fear keeps you alert."
But as I closed my eyes, smelling the fading chemical tang of Juno’s suppressant and the peppermint warmth of Rowan, I knew she was right.
We were the most dangerous thing in her life. Because Vance could only break her career. We could break her heart.
NINETEEN
Rowan
The coffee in my mug had gone cold three hours ago, but the adrenaline in my veins was running hot enough to power the National Grid.
The dining table was no longer a piece of furniture; it was a battlefield. It was covered in strata of legal pads, printed case law, and empty espresso cups. Stephen and I were in the trenches, trading clauses like punches.
"Labor Tribunal is the standard avenue," Stephen said, his voice calm, infuriatingly logical. He tapped a section of the Employment Rights Act on his tablet. "We file for constructive dismissal on behalf of the class. We argue that the monitoring clauses create a hostile work environment that forces resignation."
"Too slow," I snapped, pacing the length of the rug. I turned on my heel, ink smudging my fingers where I’d been aggressively editing a drafted affidavit. "A tribunal takes eighteen months to hear a case. Vance has board members on the adjudication panel. He’ll stall us with procedural motions until the artists starve or sign NDAs just to pay rent."
"It’s the established precedent, Rowan," Stephen countered, looking at me over the rim of his glasses. "It’s safe."
"I don't want safe. I want lethal."
I stopped pacing. I looked at the whiteboard we had dragged into the room. It was covered in my jagged handwriting, a diagram of Vance’s empire.
"He treats them like products," I murmured, staring at Illyana’s name in the corner. "He doesn't see employees. He sees assets. Units. Revenue streams with legs."
I turned back to Stephen.
"So let’s sue him like he’s selling a toaster."
Stephen blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Product liability," I said, the idea blooming in my chest, sharp and cold. "Forget labor law. Forget employment rights. Let’s argue under the Consumer Protection Act."
Stephen frowned, his legal brain stalling for a microsecond before rebooting. "Rowan, they are human beings, not appliances. Consumer protection applies to goods and services."
"Exactly," I said, walking to the table and slamming my hand down on a stack of contracts. "Vance sells 'entertainment services.' He sells the artist as a package. The 'Illyana Experience.' The 'Riot Theory Tour.' He writes these contracts effectively warranting that the artist will perform at a certain standard."
