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I should be in bed with her.

That’s the truth. The raw, blood-hot truth pressing against the base of my spine as I sit in the surveillance control center at the edge of Willowridge like a fucking ghost in his own room, every nerve in my body tuned to one frequency: her .

I should be buried between her thighs right now, drunk on her skin, tasting the sweat she wears like perfume and coaxing those breathy, broken sounds from her throat until she forgets every name but mine.

I want to hear her beg, to see those perfect lips part around a gasp as I break her in every way she asks me to.

But instead, I’m here. Watching. Because wanting her doesn’t trump protecting her. Because she doesn’t get to be vulnerable. Not for a second, and not on my fucking watch.

And that’s what kills me the most—how goddamn much I want her. And how goddamn much I can’t let myself have her right now.

A hundred screens glow in the dark like a digital altar to obsession.

Each one is a surveillance window into this town’s beautiful, glossy rot.

Traffic cams, bar feeds, covert mics tucked in event lights and picture frames, and facial recognition threading quietly across every frame.

If the devil had a dashboard, it would look like this, and I’d be the one keeping it warm.

One screen shows Zara doing a terrible job at pretending she’s not drunk… again. Another shows Harper laughing too hard at something probably not funny. Someone passes her a drink. Nothing obvious, but I clock it anyway.

A third screen, the one that pulls at something low in my gut, shows Lyra.

I rewind and watch it again.

She’s in that green velvet dress that’s going to end up in the evidence pile if she keeps wearing it around me. She’s laughing with her head tilted back, carefree for three fucking seconds.

I pause it just to look.

Her eyes are lit up like stained glass in the moonlight. Her smile isn’t perfect, and maybe that’s why it wrecks me. Because I know how hard it is for her to wear it honestly.

“Christ,” I mutter, leaning back in the chair. “You’re going to kill me.”

She has no idea how close I came to staying. To saying fuck the protocol and letting my self-control unravel in the hallway.

But protection isn’t peace. It’s a preemptive war. I need to rewind and rewatch every single second of this feed again just to catch any suspicious activity. This isn’t for Evander anymore, or for the ridiculous amount of money he’s paying me. It’s for my own sanity.

I rewind the Hollow Street feed again. It’s from two nights ago. Low-resolution, shitty angles, bodies packed in like rats, and noise pulsing through dim lighting and neon beer signs.

But I see it. Clear as day once I filter out the static.

Harper Westwood. Daughter of Louis and Miranda Westwood, heirs to the Westwood Hotels legacy, a name that practically drips with old money and inherited arrogance.

Harper is the epitome of curated elegance: champagne tastes, venomous smiles, and a wardrobe that could bankrupt small countries.

She wears wealth like a second skin and masks her entitlement with just enough influencer gloss to pass for relevant .

But beneath the branded partnerships and filtered brunches, she’s all sharp edges and strategic shade.

She’s a Vassar dropout and a self-declared marketing “strategist.” In truth, she’s made a career out of being seen in the right places and being attached to the right people, especially Lyra.

They met at a gala when they were sixteen, two too-pretty girls in designer dresses trading compliments through gritted teeth.

Frenemies ever since. Harper’s always circled Lyra like a pretty little shark trapped in a champagne bottle, smiling, sparkling, and one cracked glass away from drawing blood.

She’s tall and lithe, with the kind of frame that makes everything look couture.

Her hair’s a sleek, champagne blonde, curled in effortless waves that definitely took three hours to perfect.

Tonight, her lips are painted a precise nude-pink, and her manicured nails match her dress, smooth fabric, tight, and just short of scandalous.

She’s polished in the way that screams money and manipulation.

And she’s leaning in too close to Declan, her laugh too loud, her shoulder brushing his like she’s planting a claim.

Declan Pierce. Trust fund brat turned failed tech visionary.

A one-time Yale legacy kid who barely crawled through his classes, more focused on designer drugs and secret parties than any actual degree.

He pitched two different apps during undergrad, but both flopped spectacularly despite his father sinking seven figures into marketing alone.

Pierce Holdings sounds impressive on paper until you realize it’s a smokescreen for vanity investments and offshore yacht fleets. Basically, money laundering with better branding.

Declan met Lyra at a fashion week afterparty three years ago through mutual connections, mutual interest, and mutual disdain barely hidden behind champagne glasses.

He’s always had a thing for beautiful disasters, and Lyra was the brightest flame in the room that night.

Since then, he’s hovered at the edges of her world.

Too charming to be ignored but too slippery to ever fully trust.

He’s broad-shouldered and tall, with the lazy confidence of someone who’s never had to try too hard.

He has dark hair swept back just enough to look styled, sharp cheekbones, and eyes that flick between boredom and calculation.

Tonight, his shirt is unbuttoned just past the point of propriety, and his grin says he’s daring someone to notice.

They both orbit Lyra because it benefits them, and because being close to her gives them proximity to power, to spectacle, to legacy. But make no mistake. They’re not friends. They’re opportunists dressed in designer loyalty.

Harper leans in first. She laughs too loudly, her shoulder grazing Declan’s. She’s too polished tonight, her nails perfect, her hair curled in soft, strategic waves. She looks like she’s about to charm the devil.

Then comes the exchange. An envelope—small, thick, and unmarked—passes from Harper’s clutch to Declan’s jacket pocket. It’s smooth and discreet. Like they’ve done this before.

I freeze the frame. Then, zoom in.

I press rewind and watch it again.

That’s not gossip. It’s business. It’s betrayal. That envelope doesn’t look like good news.

I feel it in my body, the slow curl of fury.

Harper was at the wine bar tonight. Sipping, laughing, faking sweetness, and acting like she gives a shit about Lyra’s glow-up when she might be orchestrating the fallout from the inside.

And Declan? He’s the one Lyra brushed off at the bar earlier. He’s pretty, bland, trying too hard, and playing harmless. But here he is, taking payment from the person Lyra trusted the longest.

My jaw clenches. This isn’t a coincidence. This is a setup.

A two-faced bitch and a snake in designer suits threading influence around Lyra while she dances on a stage that I’ve been too distracted to tear down.

How the fuck did I miss this? I punch in the override access code for deeper intel. If they’ve coordinated like this once, they’ve done it before.

The database spits out more than I expect. Shared accounts, a burner phone Harper activated three weeks ago, and Declan’s name showing up in encrypted chat rooms flagged for political lobbying and PR smear tactics.

My heart drops into my stomach. This isn’t petty drama. This is orchestration. Image sabotage and targeted manipulation disguised as influencer bullshit.

And the one person they’re circling like vultures? Lyra. Of course it’s her.

Because people like Harper and Declan don’t go after the weak. They go after the shining ones. The ones that make them feel small in all the places they can’t admit.

I shift from the surveillance archive into their full digital profiles, breaching firewalls I shouldn’t be able to pass, except I always do.

Harper first.

Her official presence is polished to a high gloss. Travel posts, brand collabs, and podcast clips where she calls herself a “lifestyle disruptor.” All scripted to hell and back. But the backend tells a different story.

I start with financial records, personal and business, and find three different influencer contracts, all canceled within the last year. Also, one cosmetics partnership that never launched, and a steady drop in organic engagement despite a public claim of “500K real followers.”

Except they aren’t. I run a scan. Over half of her followers are purchased—Russian bot farms and third-world engagement packs.

I trace her digital activity and find the receipts.

Literally. A shell account connected to a digital marketing firm in Jakarta.

$6,200 transferred over three weeks for “social metrics enhancement.”

Desperate and completely not strategic. Thirsty .

Next, I cross-reference those dates with Lyra’s posts. The correlation stings. Every time Lyra goes viral, even for a night, Harper hemorrhages followers. It’s not a coincidence. It’s a pattern.

I pull her deleted messages from a now-dead Discord server she used last fall. There are screenshots of her ranting about how Lyra “gets everything without trying” and how she “plays the victim with designer shoes and her daddy’s money.”

So that’s the game. She doesn’t just resent Lyra. She hates her.

And it’s not just envy. It’s erasure. Harper wants Lyra’s platform and spotlight. And she’s been circling like a vulture, waiting for the right moment to rip it out from under her.

Declan’s next.

His file is even dirtier.

Crypto wallets, multiple handles traced back to black-hat marketing circles, a company called Mirage that specializes in reputation flips, blackmail, fake follower pumps, and character assassination campaigns dressed as “social strategy.”