Page 1 of His Twisted Game

PROLOGUE

five years earlier

Fiona

“You’re coming out this time, right?” my roommate asked, sitting on the bed next to me. I yanked my earbuds out, pausing the recorded lecture.

“Got to study,” I said.

“You know they’ve got tons of man-candy there?” She shoved my shoulder playfully. “You could use a real-life person andnota toy for once…”

I wasn’t the one who owned seven of thosethings;I had one, thank you very much.

“You’re the one who needs a real person!” I shouted.

“At least come be my wing-woman.” She gestured to our housemates in the other bedroom. “They suck at it.”

A new library assistant position had been posted back home, and I had promised myself thatifI aced my biology final, I’d actually apply for it this time. It was all about balance; get good grades for your career, then reward yourself with your dream.

But I had passed the midterm. I was already on the right track.

Maybe I deserved a break. And honestly, a real person in the bedroom sounded nice too.

It was about balance, right?

“Please, Fi?”

“All right,” I said. “But I’m coming home before midnight!”

I dressed in a thin pink dress, one that my roommate approved of. Examining myself in the mirror. What could I add? I went through my drawers and found some purple lipstick and diamond fishnets. I swiped them on.

“Wow,” my roommate said. “You look like a gothic doll.”

That was accurate, and I was totally okay with it. We took a mirror selfie together. My middle sister would have been proud.

My roommate’s favorite bar downtown had half-price shots all the time, and on ladies’ night, like tonight, well drinks were buy-one-get-one, perfect for college students with a limited budget.

“Let’s take a shot! Kamikazes!” my roommate shouted. “In honor of Fiona! Let’s get her wasted!”

It was easy to swallow, and we all laughed. The alcohol warmed me all the way to my toes, and the way men looked at me in my short dress made me want to smile harder. To keep their attention.

Maybe I did need to get laid. It had been far too long.

Next up, we had hurricanes, then we were back to kamikazes, and as the night went on, the drinks added up. The room swirled around me like bacteria in a petri dish, but I didn’t check the time. I was having too much fun.

When my roommate and housemates wandered off to do another dance, I propped myself up on the bar, too light-headed to join in for this round. Halfway through the song, the bartender brought me a drink: another kamikaze.

“I didn’t order this,” I said.

She pointed at a booth in the back corner. “He did.”

A man with black hair made eye contact with me. His fitted suit. Gold cufflinks. He seemed wealthy,toowealthy to be a college or graduate student. Subtle lines on his forehead, like he might be older too. Late-twenties, maybe. A stern jaw. Muscular arms and shoulders, like he might be on the cover of a fitness magazine. But it was his blue-gray eyes that captivated me; his pupils laser-focused, like I was the only woman in the room.

Who was he?

I glanced at my roommate and the rest of the college students in the bar. Why did he buy me a drink? Was it the pink dress?

I walked to him as evenly as I could, then slid into his booth.