"Beautiful," he mutters.
"Thank you."
"Nothing to say about your husband?"
I swallow the curse forming in my throat. "You look great."
"I know." He extends his hand. "The car is waiting. Let's go."
I take it for the very last time.
It's almost over.
The mantra loops through my mind as we descend to the lobby. As the doorman opens the entrance with a deferential nod. As night air hits my bare skin.
After tonight, I never have to touch him again.
I let myself sink back into the fantasy as we move through nighttime Manhattan. The city blurs past in streaks of colored light—thousands of windows, millions of lives. People walking dogs and hailing cabs and arguing with lovers, completely unaware that somewhere in the harbor, a yacht waits to welcome the type of people who deserve to be locked up and tortured until the end of time.
Disgusting, foul creatures who steal from everyone around them.
Ewan's hand finds my thigh. His fingers trace patterns through the dress, climbing higher with each pass.
I ignore it.
"You're going to love tonight. It's going to be a night you'll never forget," he says in a tone that makes me pause. There's something off-putting in a way I can't quite put my finger on.
When I turn to look at him, his eyes are already on me. His smile is all teeth, his eyes flat and cold despite the curve of his lips.
God, he is repulsive.
"Looking forward to it. It's an important evening for you. I want it to go well."
"Oh, it's going to exceed all expectations." His hand squeezes my thigh. "I've been planning this for a very long time."
That's a strange thing to say, considering how we got here—unless he's been working on this in the background for a long time.
I try to read his face, but he turns away, gazing out the window with that eerie half-smile still on his face.
It doesn't matter.
I shake off the feeling, staring out the window and thinking about Hale in his hotel room, waiting for me. About Tristan somewhere behind us, running through the plan, counting down the hours.
About tomorrow, and all the tomorrows after that.
For the first time in my life, they'll belong to me.
FIFTY-ONE
KEIRA
The yacht comes into view with the night behind it like a fever dream.
Calling it a boat would be like calling the sun a nightlight. This is a floating palace. Three decks of gleaming white architecture stretch nearly four hundred feet across the Hudson, lit with thousands of golden lights that reflect off the black water.
I've never seen anything like it.
Through the car window, I catch glimpses of chandeliers through massive windows, shadows of guests already milling with drinks in their hands, and staff in elegant uniforms moving with choreographed precision. A red carpet extends from the dock to the gangway, flanked by a shit ton of security in black suits.
