Adelaide POV
The campus coffee shop was a hum of espresso machines and indie pop, a stark contrast to the heavy, suffocating silence that had settled over me in the parking lot. I sat in the corner booth, wrapping my hands around a paper cup as if the heat could thaw the ice in my veins.
Gracelyn sat opposite me, her dark eyes glued to her phone. Her thumb scrolled with aggressive speed, her perfectly manicured nails tapping a frantic rhythm against the screen.
"Unbelievable," she muttered, turning the phone toward me. "Look at this trash."
On the screen was a photo of Fawn Garrett, Andrew’s fiancée, clinging to his arm like a parasitic vine. They were at some brunch, smiling that practiced, plastic smile of the elite. The caption read: *Loyalty can't be bought. So glad the trash took itself out.*
A dull ache throbbed in my chest. It wasn't heartbreak—Andrew had killed that long ago—but the humiliation burned. Fawn was marking her territory, pissing on my grave to make sure everyone knew I was gone.
"I've already commented vomit emojis on her last three posts," Gracelyn said, her voice dripping with venom. "And I DM'd her asking if her plastic surgeon offers refunds for personality transplants."
"Let her talk," I said, my voice sounding hollow even to my own ears. "It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me," Gracelyn snapped, though her eyes softened when they met mine. "Nobody messes with my friends. Especially not a wannabe socialite like Fawn."
I shifted uncomfortably, the guilt of my deception prickling my skin. *If she knew who I really was to her family, she wouldn't be defending me.*
Nervously, I tugged at the silk scarf around my neck, the fabric feeling too tight, too hot. As I adjusted it, the silk slipped.
Gracelyn’s eyes widened. She reached across the table, her fingers hovering near my collarbone. "Adelaide... what is that?"
I froze, pulling the scarf back up, but it was too late. She had seen it. The dark, violet bruise Damien had left on my skin. A mark of possession. A brand.
"It's nothing," I stammered, my heart hammering against my ribs. "I hit it on the nightstand."
"Don't lie to me." Gracelyn’s voice dropped, losing its playful edge. She leaned in, her expression a mix of shock and dark curiosity. "That’s a bite mark. A bruise left by a man who wanted the world to know you're taken."
Heat flooded my face. "Gracelyn, please."
"Who is he?" she demanded, a smirk tugging at her lips now. "He must be intense. Possessive."
*You have no idea.*
"It's... complicated," I whispered, looking down at my latte. "He's... an older man."
Gracelyn raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Older? Like, silver fox older? Is he rich?"
"Very," I breathed, the lie tasting like bile.
Before she could interrogate me further, her phone buzzed on the table. The screen lit up with a single word: *Father*.
The playful atmosphere evaporated instantly. Gracelyn’s posture straightened, her face losing all traces of amusement. She answered on the first ring.
"Father," she said, her tone respectful, bordering on submissive.
I couldn't hear Damien’s voice, but I felt it. The air around us seemed to drop a few degrees. Gracelyn listened, her eyes flicking to me, then away.
"But we have a lecture in an hour," she tried, though her protest was weak. A pause. She swallowed hard. "Understood. We're leaving now."
She hung up and looked at me, a grimace marring her features. "Change of plans. We're skipping class. He wants us at the flagship store downtown. Now."
"Why?"
"He didn't say. And with the Don, you don't ask 'why'. You just ask 'how fast'."
*
Twenty minutes later, I was behind the wheel of the silver Aston Martin. The car was a beast, the engine purring with a lethal power that terrified me. The interior smelled of new leather and money. It felt less like a vehicle and more like a gilded cage on wheels.
Gracelyn was in the passenger seat, fiddling with the radio, when the central console screen lit up. My phone had automatically connected to the car's Bluetooth system.
A text message banner stretched across the high-definition display.
Sender: Andrew Hebert
*Stop playing games, Adelaide. Come home. You belong here.*
The words hung there, glowing in the dim cabin. My grip on the steering wheel tightened until my knuckles turned white. He was still trying. He still thought he owned me.
Gracelyn read the message, her lip curling in disgust. "God, he is relentless. 'You belong here'? That sounds like something a serial killer would say."
She looked at me, her expression serious. "You know, it's a good thing you have that mystery man of yours. Whoever he is, if he left a mark like that on you, he won't let a creep like Andrew Hebert anywhere near you."
I stared at the road ahead, the irony twisting in my gut like a knife. She thought my "mystery man" was my savior. She didn't realize he was the predator who had just handed me the keys to my own prison.
"Yeah," I whispered, merging onto the highway that led straight to Damien. "A good thing."
