“You could.”
“Then why are you still here?”
“Because I know you won’t.”
It’s a gamble. A calculated risk built on watching her long enough to recognize the pattern: She doesn’t walk away from a challenge. She doesn’t leave an opening unclaimed. She doesn’t let men rewrite her reality without making them pay for the ink.
She stares at me, chest rising and falling slightly faster now. The air between us tightens, charged with the kind of static that makes the hair on my arms lift.
“You’re arrogant,” she says.
“I’m right.”
“You’re using me.”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t feel bad about it?”
“No.”
The honesty hangs there—ugly, exposed. Most people would flinch. Most people would reach for a softer word.
Zoë just looks hungry.
She shifts her weight, one leg bending at the knee, opening her posture just enough to invite me in or trip me up. I can’ttell which. My hand stays planted. I don’t touch her. I don’t give myself that.
“Fine,” she says. “Let’s hear the terms.”
“Here?”
“Here.” She gestures at the empty shelves. “No one comes up here this time of night. It’s secluded. It’s out of the way. There’s a difference.”
She knows that. Her eyes say she knows it.
She’s pricing risk, not ignoring it.
“Talk,” she says.
“Proximity,” I say. “Public. Consistent. We give them a better story.”
“Define better.”
“We complicate the narrative,” I say. “If they think we’re together, the rumors about the accident get muddy. They stop looking at the police report and start looking at us.”
Her gaze drags over my face, lingering on my mouth. “You want to use me as a distraction.”
“I want to use you as a shield.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
My hand lifts, slow. I don’t touch her—just hover near her knee, close enough that she can feel the heat radiating off my skin.
“A shield takes the hit,” I say. “A distraction gets in the way. I need you to stand there and look unbothered while they throw stones. I need you to look like you know something they don’t.”
“Like what?”
