Page 57

We round the corner, and The Matchstick’s lights fade behind us, replaced by shadows and the low hum of a quiet Denver side street. I hear a couple of cars pass on the main drag, but other than that, there’s nothing.

His car is nondescript. A silver, clean-looking sedan. He reaches for the passenger door and opens it like we’re on a goddamn date. As if I didn’t just send a fucking signal out into the abyss that I’m in danger.

“Where…” I start, but my voice feels detached from my body. “Where’re we going?”

“Somewhere quiet,” he says, tone low. “Don’t worry. He’ll thank me later.”

He gestures for me to get in, and I ignore him, too focused on my muscles not responding the way they should. My vision narrows at the edges, but I’m still upright and still breathing.

And while I am, there’s no fucking way I'm getting in that car.

My feet won’t move, but it’s not from fear—though that’s building and simmering under the surface—it’s because my arms feel disconnected. My knees feel soft and unreliable. There’s a fuzz to everything now, even Nate, whose voice has dropped into something smoother and coaxing.

“Zoe,” he says gently. “You’re exhausted, just have a seat. I’ll take you somewhere safe. You’ll feel better once you lie down.”

It sounds like concern. If I didn’t know better, if I hadn’t seen the shift in his eyes and the flash of something colder behind his smile, I might believe him.

But I do know better, and even through the haze, I feel it. The lie in every single word.

He steps forward and reaches for my elbow, and I jerk back too fast. The motion makes my vision tilt hard left, and I grip the edge of the open car door to steady myself, the metal biting into my palm, grounding me for one breath. Two.

I force my voice out through gritted teeth. “I’ll get a cab.”

“You don’t need to do that,” he replies smoothly. “Come on, Zoe. I’m just trying to help.”

He’s too close again. His hand wraps lightly around my wrist, and something inside me clicks over from fear to fire.

I twist away hard. The motion is sloppy, but it breaks the contact. He doesn’t get angry, though, not like I expect. He just smiles again, calm and too fucking certain, as if he’s got all the time in the world.

“You’re not thinking clearly,” he says, as though we’re in a disagreement about something trivial. “But that’s okay. I’ll take care of everything.”

My vision doubles, then. The streetlamp across the road fractures into four points of yellow, each one pulsing. Panic surges through me now as I realize the drugs are kicking in fast.

I can’t pass out. Not here, not now. Because if I do, if I get in this car, I’m not getting out. At least not as the same Zoe.

He starts to reach for me again, and this time I slam the door into his leg as I move, hard enough that he grunts and stumbles, caught off guard.

And then I bolt. It’s more of a lurch than a sprint, but it’s enough. I push off the car and move, my boots scraping against the pavement, momentum dragging me toward the far end of the street.

“Fuck,” I hear him mutter behind me, and then the unmistakable sound of footsteps.

Heavy and fast. Angry now.

I don’t look back, I just keep running. The sidewalk isn’t smooth. It juts in uneven patches and dips, every step jarring through my bones. My balance wavers and my vision fractures, but I keep going, propelled by panic and something deep in my chest that refuses to quit.

I turn sharply down the nearest alley, searching for shelter because I know I’m gonna pass out soon. It’s narrow and dark, lit only by a flickering bulb above a service door. Shadows stretch long and distorted against the brick, and the cold stings against my face.

I clip the edge of a dumpster with my thigh and stumble, hard. Pain slices through my skin, sharp and hot, but I’m mostly grateful for it because it shocks some clarity into me. But the second I slow, he’s on me.

His hand fists in the back of my coat, jerking me backward, and I scream.

It rips from my throat, hoarse and broken, more of a growl than a proper sound, but it’s enough to surprise him momentarily. I twist and swing wildly, catching him in the chest with my elbow.

“You little bitch.” A snarl ruptures from him. “He’s gonna thank me, one day. When it all falls apart and he sees you for what you are. A distraction, just another puck bunny who got too close.”

He grabs me by the wrist and shoves me hard against the wall, the brick scraping against my coat, the impact knocking the air from my lungs.

“Let me go!” I yell, slamming my heel down on his foot, writhing like a wild thing. “You pathetic fanboy freak! ”

His grip tightens, and I feel the skin at my wrist pinch, the bones grinding.

I punch him with my free hand—it’s weak and wild, but it lands. He jerks to the side, and I scramble free for half a second before he catches me again, dragging me by the arm toward the dumpsters, trying to get us out of sight.

I scream again, louder this time, even though my throat burns and the edges of my vision pulse red.

He slaps me.

It’s open-palmed and across the cheek, enough to send me reeling sideways momentarily, but I don’t stop moving. I claw back at him, my nails purposefully catching his skin, and he shoves me again, harder.

“You ruined everything,” he seethes. “Now it’s all interviews and photo ops and PDA bullshit. You turned him into something soft.”

In the very distance, I think I hear sirens, but I can’t be certain. My brain fog is too thick, my adrenaline too strong, and I suddenly realize that maybe what I’m hearing is simply wishful thinking. Maybe they’re not for me, or maybe I can’t hear anything, I’m just hoping I can.

But Nate hears them, too. His head snaps toward the street, eyes narrowing. “What the fuck…”

He turns back to me, grip tightening on my arm.

“You did something,” he spits. “You— what did you do? ”

I don’t answer. Instead, I smile. The kind of smile I save for assholes in the boardroom who underestimate me. Sharp and shaky and soaked in defiance.

“Guess I’m not as innocent as I look.”

His face twists, first with confusion, then fury.

“You think you’re clever?” he growls. “You think any of this matters when you’ve already—fuck— why isn’t it working ?”

His hand fists in my coat again, dragging me away from the edge of the alley. I stumble, but I don’t fall. I’m not going to fucking fall. Instead, I twist and claw as he moves me, anything to slow him down.

“You drugged me wrong, you dumb fuck,” I hiss. “Should’ve studied up before trying to take down a girl who grew up scrapping with assholes just like you.”

He growls and lets go of me long enough to shove me back against the brick again.

“You think this is funny? You think any of this is for you ? You didn’t build this. You don’t get to wear his name like you’ve earned it.”

His voice cracks with wild desperation.

“I did this for him,” he hisses. “You were changing everything. He used to be all about the game, not some PR puppet with a girlfriend in the press tunnel and a celly song in the stands. He doesn’t need you .”

My head spins, but the sound of sirens is louder now. Closer.

I spit directly in his face. “He doesn’t need me,” I say hoarsely, “but he’ll still destroy your fucking face for touching me.”

He flinches as my saliva hits him, and in that split second of hesitation, I strike.

I elbow him again, harder this time—bone to gut—and he stumbles back just as the screech of tires tears through the night.

My eyes are too foggy to see the figure charging toward us, but I hear it.

The roar.