Chapter 2

The next morning, I used my key to let myself into Dillon's penthouse. The habit was so deeply ingrained, I did it without thinking, my body moving on autopilot while my mind was a hollowed-out cavern. I was here to deliver the necklace.

The apartment was a mess. Two empty wine glasses sat on the coffee table, one smudged with crimson lipstick. A woman's silk scarf, the color of champagne, was draped over the back of a leather armchair.

Mechanically, I started to tidy up. I picked up the glasses, rinsed them in the kitchen sink, and folded the scarf, placing it on the entryway console. I was always cleaning up his messes.

"What are you doing here?"

Dillon stood in the doorway of his bedroom, wearing only a pair of gray sweatpants. His hair was a mess, and his voice was thick with annoyance.

My voice trembled when I spoke. "Last night... and the scarf..."

He scoffed, a harsh, grating sound. He walked past me to the espresso machine, turning his back on me. "Seraphina is a brilliant artist, but she's volatile. My family is sponsoring her. Her drama requires... delicate handling."

He made it sound like a chore, a burden he was forced to bear.

"You're making this into something it's not, Hatti," he said, the steam from the machine hissing. "It's business. You're being naive."

My throat closed up. The evidence was right in front of me, yet he twisted it, making me the foolish one for seeing it.

He must have sensed my silence, my utter stillness. He turned, his coffee in hand, and his expression softened into a mask of calculated patience. He walked over and pulled me into a brief, cold hug. His body was stiff against mine.

"Don't be like this," he murmured into my hair, his voice a low hum. "You're the only one who's stable. The only one I can rely on."

I clung to those words, a drowning woman grabbing for a piece of driftwood. It was a lie, but it was all I had.

He pulled back and looked down at me, his eyes unreadable. He reached for his wallet, pulled out the same black card from the night before, and pressed it into my hand.

"Buy something nice for your birthday," he said.

The gesture was transactional, dismissive. It reduced my pain to a price tag.

"By the way," he added, already turning away, "the Horton Industries Foundation Gala is next week. I need a date. Someone poised, uncontroversial. My father will be there."

A single, desperate seed of hope planted itself in the ruins of my heart. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was my chance.