Page 21

The sun is an intrusive bitch this afternoon, slicing through the gauzy curtains like a blade of gold and shame.

It washes everything in that soft, romantic hue they use in perfume commercials.

Only here, it’s highlighting a crime scene of tangled sheets and memories I can’t scrub off my skin.

I blink into the light, groaning, and then I see it.

A velvet box.

It’s sitting right there on the pillow beside me like a fucking proposal. Silas left it behind after marking me in every goddamn way he could last night.

There’s no note or name. Silas Creed doesn’t need monograms or declarations. I know it’s from him.

My fingers are hesitant as I reach for it, something like anticipation coiling in my gut. When I flip it open, the breath catches in my throat. A choker. It’s black velvet, simple but decadent, with a thin silver pendant at the center. Understated, elegant, and deadly.

I hold it up. There’s something about it that feels heavier than it should. I turn it over and, of course, there it is. A tracker. Embedded in the clasp, tiny and almost imperceptible.

My hands shake.

This should feel like a violation, like control, like the edge of a leash. But instead, it feels like protection.

God, what the fuck is wrong with me?

I sit up, dragging the sheets with me and curling into myself. The vibrator is still on the floor, tossed off the bed sometime last night. I don’t look at it. I can’t. Not right now.

Instead, I clasp the choker around my neck. It fits perfectly, like it was made for me.

It probably was.

The mirror confirms what I already know.

I look like I belong to him.

I’m still naked, bare in the afternoon light, with the morning’s acts written all over me.

My skin is flushed, marked with faint shadows of fingers and mouths, each one a silent claim.

My hair is a wild mess, tangled and unruly, like it’s still recovering from the way his hands gripped it.

My lips are swollen and slightly parted, still tingling from kisses that bordered on violence.

And my breasts, lifted and sensitive, seem to respond to the memory of his mouth like they’re waiting for it again.

But it’s the choker that seals it—that thin band of black velvet clinging to my throat like a collar. The slight weight of the silver pendant pressing against my collarbone feels heavier than it should, like a brand. It’s not flashy or ostentatious. It’s undeniable .

It feels natural on me, like it’s always been there.

I told myself I’d never let anyone have that kind of power over me. Not after my dad’s obsession with having power over me and everyone else. But then there’s Silas .

Last night, I let him do things to me that I didn’t even know I wanted. Things I’d never dared imagine. He cracked something open inside me, something dark and hungry that I’d buried under years of pretending I was in control.

I used to think I was vanilla. The thought of him watching me last night as I almost climaxed makes me wet again. The things he did to me and how I responded. Fuck. Turns out, I just hadn’t met the right kind of fucked up.

But now what? Do things change between us? No. No, they don’t. It was just a hookup. A mistake. I didn’t even get a chance to confront him about my mother before losing my mind.

Who the hell am I kidding?

I push off the bed, the sheets still warm with the morning’s exertions clinging to my skin.

I need out. Air. Noise. Something that’s not drenched in this estate’s suffocating history and the ghost of my mother’s voice still echoing behind my ears.

I’m not trying to blend in. I know I won’t, but I don’t want to be recognized either. Not today.

I scroll through my phone. It’s Saturday.

That itch of rebellion claws up my body.

I could spend the day tucked away like a good little girl, hiding from the truth in quiescence.

But fuck that. If I’m going to go crazy, I want to do it my way, by going to the market and getting some fresh flowers. Pathetic.

I need to get back on track and respond to the millions of influencer events I’ve been invited to. Maybe I should start taking my online presence more seriously. That way, I might just be able to get out of this hellhole.

I throw on oversized sunglasses and one of my least “Vane heiress” looking outfits. It’s still designer and still cut to perfection, but toned down just enough to pass. My boots are scuffed leather, vintage. My lips are bare. But my attitude is not.

The choker stays on.

Downtown, the market is already alive, pulsing with movement and color.

The scent of fresh bread, roasted coffee, and something spiced curls around me like perfume.

I drift past stalls of handwoven baskets and cheap jewelry, pretending to care.

I stop at a flower stand tucked between a bakery and an antique store, the kind of place that smells like memories and burnt cinnamon.

The vendor is older, wiry with sun-weathered skin and a smirk that says he’s seen too much and regrets none of it.

He’s arranging blooms—lavender, peonies, stalks of thistle —into mason jars, and I ask for the wildflower mix, half because it’s the messiest, and half because it was my mother’s favorite.

The bouquet is chaotic, with poppies in fire-engine red, butter-yellow daisies, and bluebells clinging to the green stalks like secrets. The petals brush my palm as he hands them over, and for a second, it almost feels like something delicate in a world that’s forgotten how to be.

“You’ve got a beautiful neck for that choker,” the old man says, his eyes twinkling with a boldness that makes me want to roll mine.

I give him a tight, dry smile. “Don’t make it weird, old man. It’s just jewelry, not an invitation.”

He chuckles but doesn’t say anything else. He just gives me a nod like we’ve shared some kind of unspoken code. I clutch the bouquet a little tighter, their scent sharp and sweet against the warm afternoon air, and move on, letting the stalks trail against my thigh as I walk away.

I walk through rows of stalls, the scent of fresh bread and blooming lavender thick in the air.

I pause at a small coffee cart parked at the edge of the market and order a vanilla latte and a blueberry muffin.

The barista is young, covered in tattoos, and he barely glances at me before calling out my order.

I take the steaming cup and paper bag, balancing both in one hand as I turn into the next row of market stalls.

That’s when I feel a presence.

And not the casual kind one expects in a crowd. This is different. There’s a ripple in the air, thick and intrusive. Like someone entered my space with too much hunger and way too much confidence.

He smells like leather and cologne that’s trying too hard.

I clock him before he even opens his mouth.

He has slicked-back black hair and a generic good-looking face that screams “small- town bartender who flirts with every girl under thirty.” His smile is lazy, his lips curled like he already thinks he has a chance.

“Hey there,” he says, stepping into my path like it’s his goddamn birthright. “You from around here?”

His voice has that scratchy, beer-slick tone of someone who’s used to getting away with this. It slithers up my back and sticks.

I sidestep, clutching the wildflowers and my coffee tightly. “Just visiting,” I reply.

“Well then, welcome. You look like you could use company.”

I raise an eyebrow, my face deadpan. “And you look like you peaked in high school. Move.”

He laughs, unfazed. He takes a half-step closer, his hand brushing against my wrist like he’s entitled to the contact.

“Come on, pretty girl. Don’t be like that.”

His fingers graze my wrist.

I jerk back, my heart thudding. “I said I’m good.”

And that’s when the shift happens. It’s not a fucking psychic epiphany, just the unmistakable awareness that I’m not alone in this moment. He’s here. Somewhere.

Silas.

He’s not the type to approach in broad daylight unless provoked. But he’s watching. Always. From a distance, from the shadows. I don’t need to see him to be sure because my senses sharpen like I’ve just walked onto a stage, and the spotlight’s on.

The guy in front of me is still talking and leering like he hasn’t noticed the shift in the atmosphere. His gaze crawls over me like it owns something. His smile is the worst kind—entitled. The kind that makes me want to crack my latte cup against his teeth.

But I don’t. Instead, I keep still, composed. Because I know Silas is watching. And for once, I feel like things are in control. Just… charged.

Across the street, I notice it. The black SUV that’s sitting like a dormant predator, the windows tinted and sleek in a way that demands attention.

The engine is off, the air around it still and thick with anticipation.

Inside, I know he’s watching. I don’t have to see him to know the set of his jaw, the focus in his eyes, and the stress in his hands as they hover over the wheel.

He taps it twice, the motion precise, controlled. A signal. A decision.

And then he gets out.

I almost smile, though I bury it quickly.

He stalks toward us with squared shoulders, locked eyes, and every step dripping with intent. The kind of stride that makes people move without knowing why.

The guy’s smile falters instantly, and he finally stops talking.

Not that I had been listening to a word he was saying.

His eyes flick toward Silas, confusion blooming into recognition…

and then panic. His lips part, muttering something that gets lost in traffic.

He turns on his heel so fast that it’s like someone pressed fast-forward, nearly spilling his overpriced drink in the process.

Then, he’s gone, practically sprinting down the sidewalk like he’s late for his own funeral.