Screams sliced through the ballroom. The screen went dead. The chandeliers flickered. Panic surged like a rising tide.
Someone yelled, “Get down!”
I didn’t move. My ears rang. The acrid scent of gunpowder hung in the air like a curse. Across the chaos, Isabelle stood by the stage, shoulders heaving, eyes wide with something like madness. The gun still smoked in her trembling hand.
“HE IS MINE!” She shrieked. Her voice was shrill, unrecognizable.
I stepped forward. Isabelle pointed the gun toward me—but her hand shook so violently she could barely aim.
“You think he’s yours now?” she snapped. “You think just because you walked back from the grave, he’ll love you again?”
Isabelle’s finger inched toward the trigger.
BANG!
A bullet tore through the wall behind where I’d been standing. Screams exploded again. A chair toppled over. Security lunged at Isabelle, pinning her against the stage as the gun clattered to the floor.
My heartbeat thundered in my ears. Suddenly, a body slammed into me, causing me to drop on the floor.
But none of it mattered… Because I was in Lance McKinley’s arms. I blinked back the burn in my eyes. Then, I realized—people were watching us. Recording. Whispering.
And Dominic?
He stood across the hall, frozen, jaw clenched so hard it could’ve cracked bone. Our eyes locked.
He tried to erase me, but now he was watching me held by another man—and I could see it written all over his face.
Possession.
The kind of look that said you may have ruined me, but I still own you.
Lance helped me to my feet, one arm protectively looped around my waist. Dominic took one slow, dangerous step toward us.
“You,” he spat, his voice low and sharp. “You’ve got no idea what you’ve just walked into.”
Lance didn’t even blink. “No, you don’t. Because this time, she’s not alone.”
Dominic’s jaw clenched. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
Lance didn’t flinch. “The man who actually gives a damn whether she lives.”
With that, he walked me straight out of the ballroom like the ending to every disaster movie. Reporters shouted questions. Security cleared a path. Cameras exploded behind us.
Lance covered me until we slid inside his car. We burst into the night, tires screaming against the pavement.
He glanced at me, voice rough. “Are you hurt?”
“Just a bruised cheek… and a few old wounds reopening,” I whispered.
He gripped the steering wheel tighter. “I swear, if he touches you again—”
“I’m not afraid of Dominic anymore.”
Lance looked over, gaze heavy. “Good. But just in case, I brought backup.”
Silence. Then—
“I thought I lost you,” he said, voice hoarse. “Six years, and I still remember how you looked when you laughed at my terrible pizza. How you always stole the last fry. I’m still into you, Therese.”
I turned to him slowly. But before I could say anything, he tensed.
His eyes snapped to the rearview mirror. “Shit.”
“What is it?” I asked, nervous.
He looked at me. “We’re being followed.”
I turned, craning my head out for the window. And there it was—Dominic’s car—chasing after us like he had a death note clamped around his neck.
