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Wait—what?

I squinted at him. “That’s it?”

“You’re an adult, Sloane. You’ve been threatening to do it for years. I figured it was inevitable.”

Okay.

That was suspiciously easy, but I didn’t press it because, the truth? I was high on winning. Still riding the rush of the night before—the thrill of the risk, the payout, the fact that I’d pulled something off and no one even noticed. And maybe, just maybe I liked the idea of walking away while I was ahead.

Some gamblers didn’t know how to do that.

Still, something about the way he said it itched under my skin—like he knew something I didn’t.

I ignored it though.

“I’ll send a change-of-address card,” I said with a mock salute, then pivoted on my heel and headed upstairs to pack, like I hadn’t just dropped a bomb in the middle of his carefully managed campaign schedule.

By nightfall, I had three suitcases stuffed with a good portion of my clothes, some overpriced skincare products, and more black boots than any reasonable person should own. My new space was echoing and empty and exactly what I needed.

I sat on the edge of the wide marble windowsill, toes curled against the cold tile, city lights glittering below me like stars, and I grinned like I’d just gotten away with murder.

No one knew what I did. Not my dad. Not the Bratva. Not the fighters. Not the people who lost their money on my little social media scheme.

I beat the system. I played dirty and walked away clean, which made me wonder.

Could I do it again?

I pulled out my phone and opened the thread with Ghost.

Me: Hypothetically. If someone wanted to do that thing again—rumor, perception shift, odds play—how hard would it be?

The typing bubbles appeared immediately.

Ghost: Hypothetically? Easier the second time. More believable. Got a name?

Me: Not yet. Just testing the waters.

Ghost: Say the word. This is the kind of game we could play for a long time.

I leaned back against the glass and smiled.

This could turn out to be fun.

It took three days, a personal shopper, and an absurd amount of my father’s money, but my apartment was finally done.

And it wasperfect.

Cream linen couches, black marble coffee table, gold bar cart stocked with bottles I probably wouldn’t even drink, but looked good in a photo. Custom art on the walls—abstract, expensive, and probably meaningless. My bedroom looked like something from a boutique hotel in Paris, all moody lighting, velvet pillows, and a bed I could get lost in for days.

I walked barefoot through the space with a glass of red wine in hand, admiring every square inch like I personally crafted it with my own two hands and didn’t just pay a woman named Elise to make all the decisions for me.

Whatever. Same thing.

The place smelled like new. Like fresh paint and ambition, and maybe a little bit like defiance.

I was so fucking proud of myself.

So proud that I did another loop around the apartment just to soak it all in before heading into my bathroom to wash off my makeup and slip into my favorite little sleep set: a cropped t-shirt and matching shorts. Pale gray cotton, soft as sin, with a hem just short enough to be interesting. If anyone was looking anyway.