The elevator dings, doors slide open, and I step out.
At first, I’m not really paying attention. The dull bassline from the party filters through the hallway. I smirk, picturing the chaos inside.
But then, I freeze.
Right in front of me, just beyond the lobby, I see her.
Effa.
In Jett’s arms.
My blood turns to ice.
She’s leaning on him like a deadweight, her body limp, her eyes glossy and unfocused. She doesn’t look drunk—she looks drugged. Her limbs aren’t moving right and her legs buckle. Her head tilts back like she’s barely holding on.
What the fuck?
There’s no way she’s this wasted in the thirty minutes since she came down here.No way.
Jett’s arm wraps tighter around her waist as he starts dragging her away from the bar.
Away from safety.
Away from me.
My heart drops.
My jaw clenches.
And then I run.
My boots slam against the tiled floor, echoing with purpose. My pulse thunders in my ears.
I don’t stop to yell, I just move.
Jett doesn’t see me. He’s too busy watching Effa, studying her like a predator sizing up prey. She stumbles again, barely able to keep her balance, and he grips her tighter, hauling her close like a goddamn prize.
Rage explodes inside me.
Effa lifts her head just enough to see me.
Her lips part.
“Mercs…” she whispers, barely audible. “H-help m-me…”
That’s all it takes.
I hit Jett like a fucking freight train.
“Get the fuck off her,” I roar, shoving him so hard he stumbles backward, his arms yanking away from her.
Effa collapses like a marionette whose strings just snapped, her knees buckle, and she slams to the floor. Her head hits the marble with a sickening crack.
Time stops.
“Effa!”
I drop to my knees beside her, panic ripping through me.
