A third message appeared.
Recommend immediate welfare check.
Webb was in the middle of explaining why he needed a complete security overhaul for his hedge fund’s offices when he noticed my distraction.
“Do you need to be somewhere else?” Webb asked, and I realized I was staring at my phone instead of listening to him.
I looked up at the man who represented everything I worked toward. Marcus Webb wasn’t just wealthy—he was connected in ways that money couldn’t buy. His recommendation alone could open doors to Pentagon contracts, Fortune 100 corporations, and political campaigns that shaped national policy. This dinner wasn’t just about one client; it was about positioning Cross Security as a major player in an industry dominated by established firms with decades of government connections.
Losing Webb’s interest that night could have meant losing years of carefully planned growth. Dozens of security firms competed for his attention, and second chances with men like him didn’t exist.
Then I thought about Willa walking alone through one of the most dangerous parts of the city at eleven o’clock at night. I thought about hospital visits and trauma centers, and the fear I saw in her eyes across the gallery.
“A girl I know is in danger,” I said, surprised by how easily the truth came out.
Webb studied me for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded once, sharp and decisive.
“Then what are you still doing there?”
4WILLA
Strong arms liftedme from the cold pavement, and I felt myself being carried toward warmth and light. Car doors slammed somewhere in the distance, an engine revved to life, and as I was gently placed on what felt like leather seats, my consciousness drifted in and out like waves against the shore.
The pain in my shoulder throbbed constantly, but there was something else too—a voice murmured reassurances, a hand held mine, and the scent of expensive cologne was achingly familiar. I tried to focus, tried to stay awake, but the combination of blood loss and shock pulled me under.
As the car moved through the night, carrying me away from that alley and everything that happened there, my mind retreated to safer territory. To memories that hurt less than the present. To understand how I ended up there, bleeding and broken and running for my life, I have to go back to the beginning.
Back to six months after graduation, when the memory of Kieran’s kiss still burned on my lips like a brand I couldn’t wash away…
I worked at Morrison & Associates, then a midsized marketing firm downtown that specialized in corporate rebranding. The job was everything I thought I wanted—good pay, smart colleagues, the kind of work that required creativity and strategic thinking. But every morning when I walked into that gleaming office building, I felt like I was wearing a costume that didn’t quite fit.
The problem was that everything reminded me of him. The coffee shop across from my office served the same blend Kieran had introduced me to in college—back when I was juggling classes and a summer internship, still learning how to pretend I belonged in professional spaces. The subway stop where I changed trains was two blocks from the apartment he had lived in then, when our lives still overlapped in ways that felt effortless. Even the suit I wore to my job interview was one he’d helped me pick out, standing outside the dressing room at Nordstrom during that internship, offering opinions on what looked “professional enough” for corporate America. He had been around a lot in those days—showing up after his shifts, filling the spaces when Jude worked late or was already talking about enlistment, carrying on like none of us yet understood how much was about to change.
I tried dating. God, how I tried. When I started noticing unfamiliar names beside his in tagged photos, the way they appeared casually and stayed. His life was moving forward in ways that didn’t leave room for me, and I told myself I had no reason to stand still. I began agreeing to dinners with my friends, drinks, and introductions I would have once avoided. I let friends slide numbers across tables, smiled through first conversations, rehearsed interest on the ride home. I treated itlike a skill I could relearn, like proof I could offer myself. If he was building something new, then surely I could too—even if I had to convince myself one date at a time. But he was always in my mind. No matter who sat across from me, some part of my attention drifted backward, to the version of myself that hadn’t yet learned how hard it was to let go.
One of the first people I tried to make myself care about was Drake. He was a graphic designer from the floor below mine, who asked me out for drinks after we collaborated on a campaign for a tech startup. He was sweet and funny, with an easy laugh and the kind of artistic sensibility that should have appealed to me. We went on three dates before I realized I was comparing everything he did to what Kieran might have done instead.
Drake was sweet, but I didn’t feel that spark of safety I felt with Kieran.
After Drake came Michael, a lawyer who lived in my building and struck up conversations with me in the elevator. Then James, a friend of a friend, took me to expensive restaurants and talked about his investment portfolio while I pushed food around my plate and wondered why I felt so empty.
By February, I gave up on dating entirely. The effort felt exhausting, hollow, like a performance I no longer had the energy to sustain. I threw myself into work instead, letting it take up all the space. I stayed late at the office long after most people had gone home, volunteered for weekend projects no one else wanted, and said yes to anything that kept my calendar full. It was easier to be useful than to be honest with myself. Going home meant facing the quiet—the rooms that held nothing but my own thoughts. I learned quickly how much better it felt to arrive tired enough not to notice what was missing.
By the weekend, I gave myself permission to unwind, to release some of the pressure I carried all week. It was a Fridaynight in early March, and I was at Murphy’s Pub with my coworkers, celebrating the successful launch of a campaign we’d worked on for months. The place was packed with the usual after-work crowd—young professionals unwinding after another week of corporate ladder climbing, tourists who wandered in from the nearby hotel district, and a few regulars who treated the bar like their personal living room.
I was nursing my second beer and half-listening to my colleague Jennifer complain about her latest online dating disaster when he appeared at our table.
Dex.
“Excuse me,” he said, his voice warm and confident in a way that made you want to lean in closer. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation about the Pinnacle Hotels campaign.”
I looked up to find a man in his early thirties with sandy brown hair and hazel eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. He wore a black button-down shirt and dark jeans, the kind of carefully casual outfit that suggested he put thought into looking effortless. There was paint under his fingernails—just a hint of blue and white that gave away his profession before he even introduced himself.
“I’m Dex Hartwell,” he said, extending his hand to me, even though there were four of us at the table.
The name sounded familiar. Of course it did. Dex Hartwell, only child of the Hartwells. I’d heard it everywhere—society columns, business articles, whispers about privilege and influence.
Before I could stop her, Jennifer leaned forward with that gleam in her eye. “Is it true what they say? You’re a black sheep?”
