The car drives off, and my brain focuses, noticing the street the car turns onto; they’re heading to my house. “Please,” I choke out. “My gran has nothing to do with this.”
Cyan tilts his head. “Every choice has consequences, and I’ve already mapped out your debt.”
A shudder racks my body. “You have me.” My voice is barely audible. “Just leave them alone.”
Cyan leans in, his fingers grasping my chin, angling my face to his. “I accept your offer, Dove.” My tongue refuses to work, as ice floods my veins. “You’re mine just like every inch of this town.” The car stops. Bob steps out, opening my door. Cyan doesn’t wait for a response. “Get some sleep, Dove, you look worn out.” I don’t hesitate; I am moving in a rush to get my ass out of damn car. But as I’m halfway out, his voice cuts through the night. “If you tell anyone about tonight...” I feel his sly gleam before turning around and seeing it. “You’ll pick their funeral dates. I’ll be seeing you around… Dove.” The second I’m a safe distance away, the car speeds away.
I stand outside my house, my pulse still unsteady, my breath shallow. My fingers brush over my throat, feeling for bruises. Did he leave a mark? The phantom sensation of Cyan’s grip lingers, tightening like an invisible shackle.
My hands shake as I smooth my hair, straighten my dress, pull out the cardigan, and yank it on. Pausing at the door, I take a deep breath and adjust my bag until I look presentable. I need to look normal. Like, I haven’t become someone’s possession, whatever that means. I step inside. The door creaks closed, and Tasha’s head whips toward me from the couch. The glow of the TV casts flickering shadows across her face, but it’s the sharp concern in her eyes that nearly undoes me.
Tasha gets up from the sagging couch cushions. “You’re back! Why? What happened?” she crosses the space toward me.
Forcing nonchalance as I slip off my shoes and tuck them into the entry closet. “My plans changed.”
Tasha folds her arms. “Your last text said everything was going great.”
“It was …”
“Then, Ari, why are you here with me and not getting your pipes unclogged?”
I force out a laugh, but it comes out hollow. Pivoting on my heel, I escape into the kitchen, putting distance between us. “I saw the real Hayden tonight. He wasn’t who I thought he was. So, I bailed.” I look down, seeing dirt on my hand and under my nails. Heading to the sink, I give my hand a quick wash, keep my back to her, and reach for a paper towel. Avoiding Tasha’s prying eyes, I yank open the fridge. My eyes land on a half-finished bottle of white wine. Perfect.
Behind me, Tasha sighs. “What happened?” I grab a glass, busying my hands, pretending to focus on the wine instead of everything that happened tonight.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say too fast, too defensive. “Let’s just be grateful I saw him for what he is.” But my fingers fumble with the cork. My hands are still trembling. Damn it. Tasha watches me for a moment, then wordlessly takes the bottle from my grip. With an ease that makes me resent my weakness, she pops the cork and pours. I grab the glass the second it’s full, swallowing a deep gulp.
Tasha leans against the counter, her eyes never leaving me. “I can see whatever happened is messing you up…So, I’ll let it slide for now. But trust me, I’ll find out eventually, and when I do, Trevor and I will pay that piece of shit a visit.” Despite everything, despite the threat now hanging over my life, a laugh escapes me. Because I know she would. Tasha and her damn baseball bat, Trevor, would absolutely go to war for me. But she does not know who the real enemy is, and that Hayden is already fucked.
“Don’t worry, his deeds will catch up with him.” I’m sure Cyan doesn’t let debts go unpaid, and Hayden owes big. I take another sip.
Thanks to Hayden, Cyan has claimed me, and I don’t know what the hell that means.
Five
“Some days, survival isn’t bravery. It’s performance. You smile, you breathe, and hope no one notices the cracks.”— Aria Boschett.
The morning light slices through the curtains, landing across my bed just as my alarm shrieks. I slap the snooze on my brand-new phone. Every muscle protests as I stretch, a dull, lingering ache creeping through my limbs. A cruel reminder of Saturday night. Of running for my life, only to be caught anyway.
If my legs had a voice, they’d cuss me out with every step to the bathroom. I twist the shower handle, adjusting the water until steam clouds the air. The second the warm spray hits my skin; flashes of memory burst through me. Cyan. The knife. Hayden screaming. The wicked gleam in Cyan’s eyes when his fingers gripped my throat. Fear, terror...those visceral, primal reactions. I understand that. But something darker had been there too, curling low in my stomach. I feel disgusted that my body felt lust when his hand was around my throat. My back meets the cold tile as my legs give out, as I slide to the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees. How the hell am I supposed to walk into work and pretend everything is fine? How do I erase the sensation of Cyan’s touch?
Tears mix with the shower water, but at least here, no one can see them. Tasha is already suspicious. It got worse when she saw my new phone; her questions were relentless. No matter what, I can’t let her know the actual story. I almost blurted it out yesterday. Guess what? Hayden, the married, lying jackass, stole ten million from what I’m pretty sure is the mob, and Cyan, their boss, said he owns me now, making me Hayden’s debt repayment. But the memory of those two wordsfuneral dates.Tasha wouldn’t let it go. She’d try to fix it. She always does. But this time, she’d get hurt.Or worse.I must figure this out on my own.
Forcing myself to stand, I go through the motions, my morning routine a lifeline pulling me back to normalcy. I smooth concealer under my eyes, add a touch more color to my lips, and straighten my outfit just a little more than usual. Because today, I need control. Even if it’s only an illusion.
By the time I step into my grandmother’s bedroom, I’m fully dressed in my best armor, my favorite work outfit. A burgundy pencil skirt, high-neck floral blouse, yellow blazer, and pumps that match. I feel lighter, better. My Nonna is already out of bed, sitting in her wheelchair, her silver hair neatly brushed, her delicate Italian features still regal despite the hardships of the past year. Pauline, her live-in nurse, holds a glass of water to her lips, her dark brown skin contrasting against Nonna’s lighter tone. She’s been with us since my move to Crescent Bay.
Nonna’s eyes still fill with confusion when she looks at Pauline. “Thank you. What did you say your name was again?”
Pauline stands tall, ever patient, places the now empty glass on the tray and smiles. “Pauline.”
“Well, Pauline, you’re very kind.” The familiar ache presses against my ribs. She asks Pauline that question constantly. Pauline’s warm brown eyes flick toward me, an unspoken understanding passing between us. She and I could be mistaken for family, both of us having African ancestry, similar undertones in our brown skin, though my features bear the clear stamp of my Italian heritage. Strangers often assume we’re related. Sometimes, I wish we were. At least then, I wouldn’t feel so alone in this.
I cross the room, bending slightly to adjust Nonna’s blanket and kiss her cheeks. “Good morning.” Her deep-set hazel eyes sweep over me, brows knitting in concentration. For a second, something flickers in them.Recognition?Futile hope curls in my chest.
“Morning,” she says, then pauses. “Who are you? Pauline’s daughter?”
I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment; I should know better. When I open them, my Nonna is watching, waiting. Nonna doesn’t remember the little girl whose wild curls she learned to braid, one patient strand at a time, or the teenager who baked biscotti at her side. She doesn’t remember me.
