"Don't do that." His voice is soft. Reasonable. The same voice he used for three years to tell me everything was okay. "Don't run. We're just talking."
"We're not talking. You need to leave me alone."
"Leave you alone?" Something shifts in his face. A flicker of genuine confusion, like I've said something absurd. "I gave you three years, India. Three years of my life. I kept you safe when no one else could. I wasthere— every show, every city, every night. And you never even looked at me. Not once."
"You were my security. That was yourjob."
"It was more than a job." His voice hardens. "You know it was more than that. I saw how you smiled at me. How you trusted me. You let me closer than anyone, and then you just — what? Let your manager throw me away like I was nothing?"
"Harris, that's not how it was."
"Iearnedyou." The mask slips, just for a second. Something ugly underneath. "Three years. I earned the right to be seen. To be chosen. And instead you spread your legs for some biker you've known for a week?"
The words hit like a slap. This isn't the Harris I knew — calm, professional, controlled. This is someone else entirely. Someone who's been hiding underneath the whole time.
"You don't get to talk to me like that."
"I get to talk to you however I want." He takes another step closer. "I'm the one who kept you alive. I'm the one who knows every security flaw, every vulnerability, every way someone could get to you. Without me, you'd be dead ten times over. Youoweme."
"I don't owe you anything."
"Yes. You do." His hand shoots out and grabs my wrist, hard. "You owe meeverything. And I'm done waiting for you to figure that out."
"Let go of me."
"You're coming with me." His grip tightens, fingers digging into bone. "Right now. And you're going to stop this embarrassing little rebellion and remember who's been there for you. Who'salwaysbeen there for you."
"You're hurting me."
"I would never hurt you." But he's not letting go. If anything, his fingers dig in harder. "I love you, India. I've loved you longer than anyone. And once you're away from these people, once you have time to think clearly, you'll see it. You'll see that I'm the only one who really understands you. The only one who deserves you."
"HEY!"
The shout comes from behind me. The prospect — the one who should have been watching the back — is standing at the corner of the clubhouse, coffee cup frozen halfway to his mouth.
Harris's grip loosens for just a second, and I wrench my arm free. I stumble backward through the gate, my wrist throbbing, my whole body shaking.
"This isn't over," Harris says quietly. Just to me. "This will never be over until you're mine."
And then he's gone. Slipping into the desert scrub, disappearing before the prospect can even drop his coffee and move.
I stand there, shaking, staring at the empty space where he was.
The prospect is at my side in seconds, young face pale. "Are you okay? Who was that? I just went inside for two minutes, I swear, I just?—"
The back door bangs open.
Ghost.
He takes in the scene in a single sweep — me shaking by the fence, the prospect babbling beside me, the empty desert beyond. His eyes drop to my wrist, where red marks are already darkening into bruises shaped like fingers.
Everything about him goes still. The kind of still that makes the air feel thinner.
"Come inside," he says to me. Low. Gentle. A different voice entirely from the one he's about to use.
I move toward the porch on unsteady legs. The prospect starts to follow.
"Not you."
