He takes my hand, leading me through the woods.
“Where are we going?” I ask, stumbling on my sore ankle.
He stops, turning to look at me with an expression I can’t quite read. “Somewhere where you pretend you don’t want to be consumed by me,” he says softly. “And I pretend I’ll give you a choice.”
Before I can respond, he’s pulling me along again, and I follow. Because despite everything—the danger, the fear, the unknown—I’m more alive than I’ve ever been.
And I want more.
The walk back through the woods is silent, both of us lost in our own thoughts. By the time we reach the edge of the trees, the sky is beginning to lighten with the first hints of dawn. The clubs are closed now, the streets of the Anything Goes deserted save for a few stragglers making their way home.
Soren calls a car, and we wait on the corner, the early morning air cool against my skin. I’m exhausted, my body aching from the chase and everything that followed, but my mind is electric with new possibilities.
“Thank you,” I say finally, breaking the silence.
Soren raises an eyebrow. “For what?”
“For showing me more.”
He studies me for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. “You’re welcome, Ivy.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’ll show you every part of my life, because it’s part of yours now, too. But remember—knowledge comes with responsibility. Now that you’ve seen, you can’t unsee.” He pauses. “And there’s no going back.”
The car arrives, sleek and black like the one that brought us here hours ago. As we slide into the backseat, Soren gives the driver our address.
The thought of our comfortable bed relaxes me even further. Exhaustion settles over me like a heavy blanket.
I let my head rest against his shoulder, my eyes drifting closed.
The last thing I remember before sleep claims me is Soren’s voice, low and possessive in my ear?—
“Sweet dreams, little poison.”
CHAPTER 60
IVY
THE NEXT DAY
I’m working away, moving between apps on my phone so I can preschedule some of my clients’ posts, when I notice it.
An icon—an app—that I don’t recognize. It has a blue background with a charcoal logo.
I tap it, curiosity burning. Unfamiliar. I'd meant to investigate when he first pressed this phone into my palm, his fingers lingering. There were a few features I didn’t recognize, which I put down to it being a newer model. But my gut clenches. I have a weird feeling about this.
The screen transforms into a dashboard. Sleek. Professional. Harmless at first glance. But as I scroll, my heart stutters—there's my location history, mapped in red pins like drops of blood. My messages. My calls. Every digital breath I've taken, captured and catalogued.
Similar to what I saw back in his office, but there seems to be even more.
Then I find it—a folder that shouldn't exist.A thread. A message. My fingers tremble as I open it. The original leak. The post that destroyed everything. And there, unmistakable—his digital fingerprint. His username. His words. His betrayal.
My mind fractures, rejecting what my eyes see. No. No. NO. But the evidence screams at me from the screen, impossible to deny.
The truth crashes down.
I look up. He's there. Watching. Waiting. His eyes know. His posture knows. The phone has already betrayed me to him.
Our gazes lock. No questions needed. Just the raw, exposed wound of my discovery against the calculated stillness of his expectation.
“You got mecanceled?” My voice is shrill. “Everything I worked so hard for?You’rethe one who destroyed it?”