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All his involvement at school—the volunteer hours, the extra supplies he quietly dropped off, the field trips he sponsored for kids who couldn't afford them, the gentle way he tied a first-grader's shoe at field day—was any of it purely about Kayla and the class? Or was it all a calculated campaign to watch me, to break down my defenses and get closer to me?

The thought makes my throat tight with an agonizing ache. I admired him. I respected the devoted, generous father he presented to the world. If that was just a performance to feed an obsession, then the man I respected never existed at all.

And yet, beneath the fury, the humiliation, and the sting of betrayal, a reckless, illicit heat pulses through my blood.

Because if Vanguard is Brock, then Brock Rhodes wanted me with a consuming, single-minded hunger that drove him to shatter every boundary between us.

I can't let this fester. I need the truth from his own mouth, and I need it now.

I pull out my phone and open Veil.

I need answers. And I'm going to get them.

Chapter Nine

MEGAN

I open the Veil app at eleven o'clock on Tuesday night, sitting cross-legged on my bed with the engraved pen resting on the nightstand beside me like evidence entered into an exhibit log.

Rhodes, Mercer & Vance, Attorneys at Law.

The matte-black metal gleams under the bedside lamp, cool and undeniable. My hands shake as I open the message thread with Vanguard.

The cursor blinks in the empty text box, pulsing like a heartbeat.

I type slowly, deleting and rewriting three times before I finally settle on the only words that matter.

Vanguard—

I want to meet again. Same hotel. Thursday night at eight.

One condition: no masks. When you walk through that door, I want to look you in the eyes and see your whole face. If you aren't willing to show me who you are, don't come.

I stare at the screen for a full minute, my pulse hammering in my throat, before I tap Send.

The notification changes to Delivered instantly. I watch the screen, waiting for the three animated dots indicating a reply.

Nothing.

Five minutes pass. Ten. Fifteen.

I set my phone face down on the comforter and press my trembling palms against my thighs, drawing in ragged breaths.

He's not going to answer, I think. He's going to delete the account and disappear into thin air. He knows I caught him.

Then my phone vibrates hard against the mattress.

I snatch it up so fast I nearly lose my grip.

Ivy—

No masks. I understand.

Thursday at eight. Suite 1204.

—V

I read his reply four times, my blood roaring in my ears.