Page 27 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

"He told me I belonged to him," I finally admit. " That the engagement wasn't just a piece of paper—it was ownership. He'd remind me every chance he got."

Avery's mouth tightens. "Did you tell your parents about how he treated you?"

"I tried," I whisper. "They smiled. Said I was being dramatic. That I'd grow into the marriage."

"Oh, good," she snaps. "That's exactly what you want to hear when your fiancé's wearing a tux and a trust fund while terrorizing you."

"They didn't ignore me, Ave. They erased me. Like pretending it wasn't happening made it less true."

"They didn't just ignore you," she says quietly. "They punished you."

"They discarded me," I correct her again. "Like something broken they couldn't fix. Gen was the only one who really saw it. She watched how he'd corner me, how he'd whisper things when no one could hear. How he'd grip my arm just tight enough to leave a bruise where it wouldn't show."

"So that's why she gave you her invitation," Avery says, the pieces finally falling into place.

I nod slowly. "She knew what the Hunt was. Knew she wanted no part of it. But she also knew I was desperate to escape Christopher. She said it was my best chance."

"So, then what?" She leans forward, elbows on the table. "You woke up one day and thought—'Hey, I know! Let's go to a masquerade sex hunt, and maybe that'll solve all my problems?'"

I laugh—sharp and small, but genuine. "Something like that. Though in my defense, it seemed like a better option than waiting around for the wedding date to arrive. I just needed to avoid being caught, win the money, and disappear forever. "

She leans forward, glass in hand. "And how'd that work out for you?"

I pause. "I met him."

Avery watches me carefully, a new kind of weight behind her voice. "And he scares you."

"Not the way Christopher does."

"No," she agrees, too quickly. "He scares you because you wanted him to catch you."

I say nothing.

She leans back with a sigh. "God, your mother gave off 'we regret the birth' vibes since day one. This just confirms everything I ever suspected."

"She once told me wanting to paint full time was a phase."

"Oh yeah, that tracks. I'm shocked she didn't set your brushes on fire."

"She threatened to cut me off mid-dinner."

"Let me guess. Red wine, French crystal, condescending smile?"

"She said I was embarrassing the family name."

"Right. Because you were the problem." Avery gestures broadly. "Not the forced engagement. Not the abusive fiancé. Not the secret power games. You, for having the audacity to want happiness."

"I left after college," I say softly. "Took what I could and vanished. I only stayed in touch with you and Gen."

Avery doesn't speak for a beat. Then, with a deep sigh and zero warning.

"No wonder you ended up with a billionaire sadist. You've got authority issues, abandonment trauma, and a moral compass that needs a tune-up."

I laugh—truly, this time. "Thanks. I'll pass that along to the therapist I can't afford. "

"You're welcome," she says sweetly. "First diagnosis is free. Follow-ups require alcohol and gossip."

She lifts her glass and clinks mine gently, voice softer now.

"You should've told me the whole story, Luna. Not the highlight reel."

I fidget with my napkin, folding it into smaller and smaller squares. "I didn't tell you because I didn't know how," I admit. "Because it sounds pathetic when I say it out loud. Because I didn't want you to look at me like I broke myself on purpose."

"I don't think you're pathetic."

I look up, surprised by the fierceness in her voice.

"I think you're furious," she continues. "And heartbroken. And tired of being everyone's secret. I think you've been fighting for air in a house where everyone told you to breathe less."

A breath escapes me, something tight in my chest finally loosening at being seen—really seen.

"And I think," Avery continues, her eyes fixed on the collar just visible beneath my blouse, "if you tell me you're falling for this Beckett guy, I will physically rip that thing off your neck with my bare hands. While screaming. In public."

"I'm not falling for him," I say quickly, hand instinctively rising to touch the velvet ribbon.

She lifts a single, perfectly skeptical brow.

"I'm not," I insist, heat rising to my cheeks.

"You're not rising, either," she observes pointedly. "You're still wearing his mark."

"I didn't want to be rescued," I say after a while, tracing patterns in the condensation on my glass. "I just wanted to be left alone long enough to survive."

Avery looks at me for a long moment, her expression softening into something I rarely see—genuine worry without judgment.

"Well," she says finally, "you're not alone. And you're not dead."

"That's the bar now?"

"Honey, for you?" Her smile is sad but genuine. "It's a win."

Avery's phone dings, pulling us from the moment. She frowns and sighs like the weight of the entire elite world is waiting in her inbox.

"I've got to go play nice at a family dinner," she mutters, sliding her sunglasses back into place with practiced elegance. "If anyone asks, I'm mentoring an orphaned artist with emotional instability and a pension for luxury bondage."

"That's..." I tilt my head, considering. "Not inaccurate."

"Nope." She stands, gathering her purse.

We both rise from the table, gathering our things in the warm afternoon sun.

Avery steps around the table and wraps her arms around me—tight, fierce, like she's trying to hold together whatever's left of me after this confession.

"You okay?" she asks against my ear, voice barely above a whisper.

I pause, considering the question seriously.

Then nod, more certain than I've felt in days.

"Ask me again tomorrow."

She kisses my cheek, lips pressing firmly enough to leave a faint mark of lipstick. "Tomorrow. Or I come find you."

I smirk, feeling something like my old self stir beneath the layers of fear and uncertainty. "Might want to bring backup."

She walks away with all the fire she brought in, heels clicking like punctuation marks against the rooftop tile. I watch her disappear through the glass doors before turning back toward the skyline, letting the city's vastness wash over me.

The air tastes different now. Clearer, somehow, after unburdening myself.

But beneath that clarity, there's something else—a current, an electricity, a warning. Like something's coming. I don't know what precisely, but I can feel the shift in pressure, the way the air changes before a storm.

As I reach for my phone to call a car, I see the text from Beckett waiting there.

One word.

Soon.

My fingers hover over the screen, a chill running down my spine despite the warmth of the afternoon sun. Not fear, exactly. A premonition.

And I had a feeling it had to do with my payment for my time out with Avery.