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Cy: Senator Jacobs’ fixer has been playing both sides. Just thought you’d like to know.

Of course he is. That’s the thing about men who rely on others to clean up their scandals—they always think they can play both sides until one eats them alive.

Me: Let me guess. He called Senator Jacobs too…

Cy: Bingo. Want me to drop a little fire on his doorstep?

I smile coldly as I give him the go ahead.

As I place my phone back on the desk, I return my attention to the puzzle, the last piece still between my fingers. I’ve carried this last piece in my jacket pocket all day. Let it warm against my skin. She deserves more than cold cardboard. I place it down, aligning it with precision.

And just like that, the future Mrs. Piper Russo is looking back at me, smiling.

“I’ll make sure you’re ready for me,” I say, and I relish the chill of anticipation working its way down my spine.

Standing up, I pull at the cuffs on my shirt before stretching to my full height. One of the worst parts of what I do is all the time I spend sitting. I walk over to the small table filled with alcohol, and let my fingers run along the neck of my favorite whiskey.

After pouring a glass, I return to the puzzle, my eyes settling on the image of Piper—perfect, smiling, trapped in a thousand tiny pieces. A thingI built, shaped, decided.

Grabbing my phone, I send an email to my team. I’ve lined up five interviews, each one disingenuous, each one arranged to fail.

Despite the hour, my assistant, Maria, emails me back right away. She confirms that the interviews will happen one week apart, making the timing even sweeter for when I give Piper an internship in one of my companies.

My little toy needs this to be ripe for my picking.

I reply to Maria with a final instruction; have the black envelope I left on her desk delivered to Piper’s apartment tomorrow morning. Maria’s always in before sunrise, she’ll have it done before Piper even opens her eyes.

The thought of my toy getting a toy—specifically, a puzzle piece—is addictive.

Soon, Piper won’t just exist in pieces on my desk. She’ll be in front of me, eager and hopeful. My pulse stays even, but something shifts—an ache, a hunger.

After this, she’ll be in my world. And by the time she realizes she’s trapped, she won’t even want to leave.

Chapter4

Piper

Ilean in closer to the mirror and swipe one final coat of mascara onto my lashes, holding my breath like it’ll help keep my hand steady. No smudging. No clumps. Just clean, defined lashes to match the rest of my carefully constructed façade.

The high ponytail I’m sporting keeps my hair away from my face, making me look less timid. My makeup is polished without overdoing it. The navy tailored trousers are high waisted, and my nude-colored silk blouse is tucked into the waistband. Matching pumps finish the look, and I don’t look half bad, if I do say so myself.

I’ve already triple-checked the contents of my tote, but just for the hell of it, I go through it again. My résumé folder, list of questions, water bottle, emergency breath mints… yep, it looks like it’s all here.

Then I grab my phone and open the company website one more time, skimming through the About Us page like I haven’t already memorized every damn detail. Founded in twenty-eleven. Political communications. Bipartisan narrative strategy. Emphasis on youth voter outreach.

While it’s not my dream firm, it’s solid, and more importantly, it’s within reach thanks to the alumni I reached out to the day after my birthday. Prestigious enough to impress future employers, small enough that I might actually get to do more than fetch coffee if I land the internship.

A knot tightens in my stomach, sharp and familiar. God, I hate this part. The pretending. The smiling. The desperate edge I always try to hide beneath layers of competence and control.

I grab my bag off the table and sling it over my shoulder, keys already in hand. I’m halfway out the door when I spot something sitting on the doormat; a black envelope, plain and unmarked, resting like it belongs there.

Frowning, I crouch, and pick it up—but I don’t open it. I don’t have time. So I just slip it into my bag, and lock up behind me. The interview waits. As soon as I reach the curb, the rideshare pulls up, the driver’s window already down.

“Piper H.?” he asks, glancing at his app.

Clutching my phone, I double-check that his picture on the confirmation matches the man in the car. One can never be too careful.

“That’s me,” I confirm, tugging the door open and sliding into the backseat.