He believes he’s leaving the scene of a failed hookup. But he’s walking towards a reckoning, unaware.
My steps are small and measured. The taste of it—something sweet with promise—settles at the back of my mouth. I’m not here to punish in haste. No, that won’t do. I’m here to make him understand the hollow place he carved in someone else’s life.
He will beg. He will bargain. He will learn the damage of what he’s done.
Not because I want to watch him suffer for spectacle, but because his wickedness must end with meaning.
Tonight, Silas Rourke will meet a dark shadow he can’t outrun.
Chapter 8
Laurette Devereux
Brunch:where the mimosas are bottomless, but spilling the tea is the real main course.
The restaurant where I’m meeting the girls is tucked along a tree-lined street, known for its bottomless mimosas, overpriced brunch, and decor designed to be photographed. The brick is nearly swallowed by ivy. Inside, chandeliers hang low over velvet booths, casting soft gold over plates of avocado toast and too many hangovers in designer sunglasses.
I’m the first one here. Of course I am. I don’t do late. Not to court, not to dinner, not to this. If I’m going to dissect my potential stalker over chicken and waffles, I’m damn well going to be on time.
The hostess leads me to a corner booth, half-hidden behind a wall of greenery and a strategically placed wine rack. I’m grateful. Fewer ears this way. Not that it matters much in New Orleans. This is a city where secrets spill as easily as drinks, and nobody flinches.
Jazz drips from the speakers, smooth and slow. The scent of maple syrup clings to the air, chased by smoked bacon and something sweet rising warm from the ovens. It’s indulgent. Familiar. An atmosphere designed to convince you nothing bad happens here.
Eden’s the next to arrive, dressed in black tailored trousers, an ivory silk camisole, and low-heeled sandals that click against the floor. She slides into the booth, slips off her sunglasses, and studies me.
“Girl… you look like hell,” she says.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t have getting drugged or dick-sucking betrayal on my bingo card this year. So no, I’m not exactly in my glow-up era.”
Marissa floats in next, all breezy elegance in a sage-green wrap dress, nude block heels, and a crossbody bag worth more than three months of a typical mortgage. Her oversized sunglasses slide down her nose as she sinks into the booth with a practiced sigh.
“Don’t say it,” she warns. “I know I’m late.”
“You are, but you look fabulous doing it, so I’ll let it slide.”
Eden smirks. “Brielle’s later than you, so it doesn’t count. The only person who’s late is the last one through the door.”
She eyes me again, head tilted. “Shit, girl. Have you slept at all?”
Gotta love honest friends. Keeping me humble, one soul-crushing truth at a time.
“Well, at least my emotional trauma has a matching aesthetic.”
The truth? I spent half the night checking locks and the other half staring at that napkin, willing it to whisper his name. Every time I closed my eyes, his silhouette returned—tall, still, calm as death in the grainy light of my camera feed.
In comes Brielle. White wide-leg trousers, a blush blouse knotted at the waist, and gold bangles that chime with every move. She plops into the booth, tosses her sunglasses on the table, and steals my mimosa without blinking.
I arch a brow. “Please… help yourself.”
“I’m already behind,” she says, wiping her mouth. “So let’s cut the shit. Whose balls are we busting today?”
Eden raises her Bloody Mary. “I was waiting for Brielle before asking the same thing. Spill it, Devereux.”
I glance around the restaurant, eyes skimming velvet booths and mirrored walls, and lean in across the table. My voice drops low, meant only for them.
“Someone who was at Leviathan on Friday night followed me home.”
All three of them freeze, lips parted, eyes wide and unblinking.
