She enters the frame, and every step is deliberate. She scans the street, then reaches for the mailbox. No panic or rush. Her movements speak of control, not caution.
Her fingers close around the envelope. She pauses, looks left, then right. That subtle shift in her shoulder isn’t fear. It’s something else.
Curiosity.
The timestamp reads 6:43 a.m. The mail hadn’t run—nothing ever comes that early. She checked before leaving for work because she wanted to know if it was there. She came out expecting it. Or hoping for it.
She lifts the flap and pulls out the note, reading itright there on the curb. No hesitation. No retreat. She doesn’t flinch or crumble. She absorbs it, turns it over in that brilliant mind of hers, and I already know that whatever path she chooses will lead straight to me.
I scrub back to Saturday. The first note. Just a napkin.
She comes out in her robe, coffee in hand, hair pulled back in that no-nonsense way that makes my pulse jump. She moves with the ease of someone who never expects the world to surprise her.
Until it does.
Her hand brushes the napkin, half-tucked beneath the mail. She stills. Picks it up.
There’s no panic. Only that spark of curiosity, tinged with something darker.
She scans the street, sees nothing, and walks back inside. Measured. Composed. Thinking.
And that’s how I know she’s not backing away.
She’s in.
Chapter 12
Laurette Devereux
Brielle insistedI wear this dress. I didn’t argue.
The bouncer gives us a once-over before the door opens, probably clocking us as trouble. He’s not wrong.
Marissa grabs my hand, laughter bubbling as we step inside. Her boyfriend hates when we come here, which only adds to the appeal. Eden trails behind, eyes on her phone. Brielle moves ahead, confident and unapologetic, as always.
The club’s shadows engulf us. Music hits hard, a pulse beneath the skin. Lights flash. Heat clings. Bodies shift and sway, packed tight. It’s all sweat, smoke, and tension.
The air smells of liquor and citrus, cut with perfume and something sweeter rising from the bar. Blue strobes slice through the haze, and everything hums.
We weave through the crowd and land at the bar. The first round’s on me.
Four shots of tequila hit the counter. We clink glasses, and tip back.
Marissa chokes a little and laughs, fanning herself as if she’s survived a near-death experience. Eden sips, grimaces, and dabs herlips like she’s at afternoon tea. Brielle tips hers back with practiced ease, lips curling into something wicked.
It feels good to be out. No Jon David. No notes tucked in mailboxes. No silhouettes in the security footage. Just noise, heat, and bodies in motion.
The bass ripples through the space, shaking the floor beneath us. My hips move on instinct, swaying with a confidence I haven’t had in weeks.
“Dance with me?”
Marissa glances down at her shoes and scoffs. “These are wedges. I’m not twisting an ankle for you.”
Eden doesn’t even look up. “I don’t dance. You know this.”
Brielle’s gaze locks onto a guy across the room. “Go ahead; I’ll find you later.”
So, I’m dancing solo.
