THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-TWO


The sun crawled across the marble floors like it didn’t care I hadn’t slept. My temples throbbed with a dull ache, the kind that sat behind your eyes and reminded you that everything you’d once known was gone. The kiss from the gala still lingered on my mouth like a bruise I couldn’t wipe off.

I slipped out of the guest bedroom barefoot, wrapped in silence. Wesley wasn’t in sight—thank God. I moved through the penthouse like I didn’t belong here, like touching anything might leave fingerprints I couldn’t erase. The kitchen was cold, clinical. I busied myself with the espresso machine, needing the ritual more than the caffeine.

I didn’t hear him come in.

Just felt it—that shift in the air that always came with him. Like gravity bent in his direction.

“You’re up early,” he said, voice rough with sleep or indifference—I couldn’t tell which.

I didn’t turn around. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He didn’t respond. Just walked past me and set something down on the marble counter with a soft thud. A small velvet box. Deep blue, expensive. I stared at it like it might explode.

“This is for you.”

I turned slowly. “What is it?”

“Open it.”

I didn’t move right away. I didn’t like gifts. Especially not from men like him. Gifts were never just gifts. They were tools. Weapons. Chains.

I opened the box anyway.

Inside lay a necklace that looked like it belonged in a locked vault—not around someone’s neck. Heavy dark gold, delicate filigree curling like vines around a black opal that shimmered with midnight fire. Gothic. Elegant. Dangerous.

It looked like something you wore to a funeral where you were the one pulling the strings.

“It belonged to my mother,” Wesley said, his tone unreadable. “She only wore it when she needed to be feared.”

My fingers curled tighter around the box. “So, what? You want me to play dress-up now? Put on a costume so your enemies know you’ve got me on a leash?”

His eyes sharpened, but his voice stayed calm. “No. I want them to know you’re under my protection.”

That word—protection—felt like another chain.

“And this is what, your brand?”

“You think too small,” he said. “This isn’t about branding you. It’s about sending a message. No one touches what’s mine.”

There it was again. That possessiveness he wore like another suit.

I swallowed hard. “I don’t want to owe you anything.”

“You already do.”

I hated how easily he said that. As if it were a fact carved in stone. Maybe it was.

I stared at the necklace for another few seconds. It felt too intimate. Too loaded. But refusing it would only draw more attention—make it seem like there was a rift between us. In this world, perception was everything.

My hands moved on their own.

I took the necklace out, the chain cool and impossibly smooth. I fastened it around my throat, feeling its weight settle like a verdict.

Wesley didn’t say a word.

He just watched me.

And in that moment, I didn’t know what unsettled me more—the heaviness of the necklace, or the way he looked at me like I’d just confirmed something for him. His gaze wasn’t warm. It wasn’t kind. But it was focused. Possessive.

Territory marked.

That night Sleep refused to come.

I lay stiff on the mattress, staring at the ceiling, watching shadows crawl across the crown molding like insects. My mind was a spinning wheel of everything—The night I spent with Wesley, his brush-off afterward, the necklace with its unnatural weight, the way he looked at me like I was both weapon and possession.

I rolled over, curling into myself, but nothing brought comfort. Not the silky sheets. Not the lock on the door. Not even the thick silence that filled the penthouse like fog.

I got up. My limbs felt too heavy, my chest too tight. Padding barefoot into the bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face, letting it drip down my neck. I looked at myself in the mirror. Eyes bloodshot. A bruise still visible on my lip from where I’d bitten it after the kiss. My reflection looked like a stranger wearing fear like a second skin.

I dried off, breathing slowly.

Back in the bedroom, the air hit me differently. Sharp. Cold. Like I’d just walked into a room that hadn’t belonged to me a second ago.

I stopped moving.

Something felt… wrong.

My gaze instinctively flicked to the nightstand.

The necklace was gone.

My pulse kicked hard.

I’d taken it off earlier to shower, placing it carefully on the wooden tray by the lamp. I remembered the soft click of it unclasping. The way it had stuck to my skin like it didn’t want to let go.

But now—the tray was empty.

Gone.

No trace of the black opal. No chain. No box.

My heart began to pound as I dropped to my knees, flinging open the drawer. Nothing. I shoved clothes aside. Checked beneath the bed. Still nothing.

I stood too quickly and swayed. The room felt like it was closing in. I stumbled toward the dresser, panic clawing up my throat.

And then I saw it.

The window.

Just slightly cracked open.

I stared at it for a second too long, hoping I was wrong. Hoping maybe I had forgotten to latch it fully.

But I never left windows open. Not in penthouses. Not when I had so many ghosts clawing at the door.

My feet moved on their own.

I stepped toward the bed—and then I saw it.

A small red card on my pillow.

Deep crimson.

Unmarked.

Except for the blood-red wax seal.

A rose.

Encircled with thorns.

Marco’s mark.

My breath caught. A sound escaped my lips, half-sob, half-gasp, as I stumbled backward and hit the edge of the dresser.

No. No, no, no.

My hands flew to my mouth, but it didn’t stop the tremble. I knew what this meant. The necklace… wasn’t just a gift. It was a message. A warning.

And now it was gone.

Taken.

By him.

How had he gotten in?

The guards. The codes. Wesley.

None of it mattered.

Because Marco had been here.

In this room.

Close enough to touch the pillow. Close enough to watch me sleep. Close enough to know I’d taken the necklace off. That I’d left myself vulnerable.

I backed toward the door, the cold air suffocating.

My fingertips touched the edge of the card, but I didn’t dare lift it. I couldn’t. My legs threatened to give out beneath me, but my brain wouldn’t stop screaming.

He was here.

He had been here.

And I never even heard him.