Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
As soon as the doors slap shut behind me, I relax, banging my head against the wall a couple of times to force my thoughts down. No, you're not weak. No, you don't need an intervention. Yes, you do like him more than you thought. No, you're not thinking about love.
My eyes open, onto the room. The gondola, the pool table, the small bar, and TV, and the wall that hides the bedroom.
This is where I should have been all along. It's closer to hell.
***
“I'm nervous,” I say down the phone, chewing on my lip. “Am I losing my way?”
She's silent a moment, before her voice filters through like the morning sun after a stormy night. “No, Vanya. You're not. You don't need anyone to tell you anything. Deep down, you know the path.”
She says it like I already knew this. After showering, I decided to pick up the phone and call the one person who is far enough away from the situation to not have a bias.
“Where are you?” I ask, resting the phone on my shoulder as I fold the last piece of clothing I had. The sound of the elevator doors opening makes me pause for a moment, but I shrug it off, changing ears.
“On a job,” she says, and I hear the sound of the ocean crashing around her.
“Anyone we know?”
She laughs, and it's almost enough to make me smile. “No, unfortunately.”
I end the call and stare at my phone for a beat too long, trying to absorb her words. Deep down, you know the path.
Do I?
Shoving the phone in my pocket, I grab the few remaining items scattered across the bed and head for the elevator. The doors slide open with their usual groan, and I step inside, punching the button for the main floor.
The ride up feels longer than it should. My reflection stares back at me from the polished metal doors—oversized cardigan hanging off one shoulder, tiny sleep shorts barely visible beneath the hem, thigh-high socks bunched at my knees. I look like I rolled out of someone's bed.
Because I did.
The elevator dings. Doors part.
I step out into the main living area and freeze.
Four pairs of eyes snap to me.
Asher stands near the kitchen island, coffee mug halfway to his mouth. Atlas sprawls on the couch, remote in hand. Punk perches on the arm of the same couch, phone angled like she's mid-story. And Camille—perfect, polished Camille—stands beside Asher, one manicured hand resting on his forearm.
Nobody moves.
I glance down at myself, suddenly aware of how sheer this cardigan is in direct sunlight. The lace of my bralette does absolutely nothing to hide my nipples, and these shorts might as well be underwear.
“Morning,” I say, because what else do you say when you've just walked into your own ambush wearing next to nothing?
Camille's eyes drag down my body, slow and deliberate. Her lip curls. “Interesting outfit choice.”
“Thanks.” I shift the bundle of clothes in my arms, using them as a makeshift shield. “I dress for comfort, not approval.”
Atlas barks out a laugh. “Damn.”
Punk doesn't look up from her phone, but I catch the smirk tugging at her mouth.
Asher's gaze hasn't left me. It's heavy, possessive, tracking every inch of exposed skin like he's remembering for later. His jaw flexes.
Camille notices. Of course she does.
She steps closer to him, fingers tightening on his arm as she tilts her head up, angling for his attention. “Baby, we still need to talk about the gala next week. Your mother wants us back after the ceremony, so I'll book the jet to come at say, eleven?”
“Yeah.” Asher's voice comes out flat. He doesn't look at her.
She pouts, leaning into him. “You're not even listening.”
“I'm listening.”
“Then look at me.”
He does. Finally. And something in his expression shifts—something cold and dutiful that makes my chest tighten. He dips his head, and Camille rises on her toes, pressing her glossed lips to his.
The kiss is performative. Strategic. A claim staked in enemy territory.
My stomach twists. Heat floods my face, crawling down my neck and settling somewhere low and venomous. I should look away. I should walk past them, head held high, and pretend none of this matters.
Instead, I watch.
Camille's hand slides up his chest. Asher's stays at his sides.
When she pulls back, she's smiling. Victorious. She glances at me, and that smile sharpens into something cruel.
“Sorry,” she says, not sorry at all. “Didn't mean to make things uncomfortable.”
I force my mouth into a smile. The kind that doesn't reach my eyes. The kind that says I could bury you and no one would find the body. “Not uncomfortable at all. You two are adorable.”
Atlas groans from the couch, rubbing his face with both hands. “Oh god, here we go.”
Camille's smile falters. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing.” Atlas waves a hand. “Just sensing the vibe shift. This might get awkward.”