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Once I can get my legs to move, I follow, pushing my way through the crowd as best I can, trying not to lose him.

But I do—lose him.

Just as I make it through the room, I watch the emergency exit door in the back of the room close behind him. But no alarm goes off.

I stand in front of it, hesitant to push it open. An alarm didn't go off for him, but maybe it would for me. If he's fake.

Fuck it.

I push the door open and step into an empty service hallway. In front of me, there's a staircase. To my right, there's a door leading to a fire escape. To my left, there's a long, bright, empty hallway. I almost bolt out the door before I hear footsteps echoing through the stairwell.

"Hey!" I yell, running up the stairs after him. "Come back!"

I lean over the railing and see him turning the corner of the staircase about four floors ahead of me. I race up the stairs, but I'm drunk and out of fucking shape. I can't remember the last time I ran anywhere.

Fuck, I guess it was from the cops.

After maybe about ten floors, I can't feel my thighs, and I've already misstepped twice. Somewhere after twenty, I'm crawling, using my hands to help me climb. The sound of aheavy metal door opening and closing reverberates throughout the space, and I almost cry.

I want to puke.

It's minutes later before I finally reach the top. I push open the door and step out onto the roof, the air still thick with heat even at this time of night. With my hands on my knees, I stop, catching my breath as I scan the rooftop.

But there's no one here. And there's nowhere to hide. It was all in my head. Just like with the concert, I let myself believe something I knew couldn't be real.

I'm fucking losing it.

"Fuck!" I scream. "I'm so fucking stupid."

I fall to my knees and scream, tearing at my hair with my fists before punching the ground until my knuckles are bloody. Then, I drop my forehead to the concrete, defeated.

My mind is going. And that's pretty much all I have left. Declan ruined me. I don't have Luca. River and Hazel are gone forever. I'm a fucking murderer, and I can't exist in the real world anymore. In a couple of weeks, I won't even have a name or a face.

And now, this.

I don't know how long I stay there on the ground, but eventually, I do pull myself up and turn to the door leading back to the staircase.

But I don't open it—I can't. It's too heavy again, and I don't mean the door in front of me. The hole in my chest where my heart used to be, that sinking feeling, the hopelessness crushing my rib cage—it's too heavy like it was the first few weeks after they abandoned me when I could barely move. So, instead of going back inside, I walk to the ledge and look over.

I've always been afraid of heights. Even now, just standing here, my hands shake and my palms are slick with sweat. It's a long way down—long enough that I'd have time to regret it onthe way—but it would be quick and certain. I wouldn't wake up in a hospital somewhere. I'd never have to feel this way again. I couldn't hurt anyone else, and I wouldn't have to lose the only thing I have left.

I climb up onto the ledge and scream to the sky, "You win! You fucking win; are you happy? Is this what you want? Huh?" I toss my purse back onto the roof. "I hope when you find out, you don't think I did this out of love. I want you to know I died hating you, and I've hated you for a long time. I hope you suffer before you die…like I have. I hope it's slow, and I hope it fucking hurts."

I point my toes toward the ledge and take a deep breath. "I'll just…" I pause, sniffling. "Close my eyes and count to thirty. One…two…three…"

But before I'm ready, I'm moving through the air. But I'm falling backward, not forward. I land flat on my back on the rooftop, the back of my head smacking into the concrete hard enough to make me see stars. The weight of the person who pulled me back is on top of me, pinning my wrists to the ground.

He followed me. He promised me he wouldn't. Maybe I should be grateful to him for saving my life again, but I'm getting really tired of men who are excellent liars.

But when I open my eyes, and my vision clears, it isn't Sebastian on top of me.

"That isnotwhat I want," Declan says. "That hasneverbeen what I wanted from you, Teagan."

"You're not real."

Am I dead?

"Teagan, this is real," he says. He takes my right hand and moves it beneath his shirt, holding my palm flat against where his heart beats in his chest—over the raised scar in the shape of a 'T.' "Feel that? That's real, kitten. Have you been having a hard time with that? Telling the difference between what's real and what's not?"