Chapter 4
Jiya
Istep out of my apartment building a full hour earlier than necessary, dressed in dark-wash jeans that make my ass look fantastic and a soft, fluffy gray sweater that’s cozy but still shows off the goods.
My pink hair falls in that perfect “I woke up like this” way that actually took me twenty minutes to achieve.
Every Thursday, Calloway Frost gets his overpriced coffee at Atelier, where they charge nine dollars for a fancy hot bean water and act like adding sugar is a war crime.
I know because I’ve been following him.
I arrive early, snagging a corner table where I can see everything. The vial is ready in my pocket.
Enough monkshood derivative to give a horse a heart attack. Elegant, untraceable, and exactly what this bastard deserves.
Calloway walks in, and I pretend to scroll through my phone while watching him.
My stupid, traitorous brain whispers, He saved your life.
It’s an inconvenient flicker of…something. Gratitude, maybe. A debt. It makes the vial in my pocket feel heavier.
But then I look at him, really look at him, gliding through the crowd like he owns the air everyone else is just borrowing.
I see the predator beneath the polish. He saved my life. But how many lives has he taken? How many men and women ended up on his camera roll before they ended up in a shallow grave?
The flicker dies. The mission reasserts itself, cold and clear. The world is better off without him. My personal feelings are irrelevant, annoying distractions.
The vial is no longer heavy; it’s a cool, comforting promise against my thigh. And damn if he doesn’t look good walking to his death.
He’s getting his precious artisanal coffee when our eyes meet across the room. I see the exact moment he recognizes me—surprise, and that slow smile that probably works on most people.
Okay, on me too. But I’m still going to kill him.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” I say when he approaches. “My mysterious hero in broad daylight.”
He stops by the table, and for a second, he looks almost uncomfortable.
“Hero is a strong word.”
“The guy who took down an armed robber and saved my life? I’d say that qualifies.” I gesture to the empty chair. “You disappeared last night before I could thank you.”
He hesitates, but then slides into the chair. The air shifts, filled with the scent of him—warm cedar, expensive soap, and something darker. It’s the kind of smell that makes you want to close your eyes and breathe it in.
I fight the urge.
“It was nothing. Anyone would have done the same.”
“Anyone would have hidden behind the bar,” I say, leaning forward. “You went full-on action movie. It was impressive. Sexy.”
His shoulders tense, and he looks away. “Just instinct.”
His phone buzzes, an angry vibration against the tabletop. He glances at it, and his expression sours.
“Everything okay?”
“My friend Aanya is having a meltdown because someone on Instagram said her latest exhibition looks like ‘a toddler’s finger painting fever dream,’” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, do you mind if I take this?”
“Go for it. I’ll sit here judging other people’s breakfast choices.”
He steps away toward the window, his back to me.
My heart gives a single, hard thump. Now.
I pull the vial out. My hand is steady as I uncap it, the movement shielded by my purse. A quick, practiced tilt, and the clear liquid vanishes into the dark coffee, leaving no trace. Colorless. Odorless.
He comes back looking like he wants to throw his phone into traffic.
“That bad?” I ask.
“She’s convinced that negative reviews are a personal attack on her soul.” He slumps into his chair. “I spent five minutes explaining that people may have opinions about art.”
“Wild concept,” I say dryly. “What’s next, letting them vote on what they like?”
“Don’t give her ideas.” He reaches for his mug, and my heart rate spikes.
“She’d probably start a petition to make criticism illegal.
” He pauses, looking thoughtful. “You know, you should come to her opening next week. She might lack confidence, but she’s incredibly talented. I’m hosting it at my gallery.”
“Maybe I will,” I say with a smile. You’ll be dead by then.
His phone explodes with notifications. He freezes, mug hovering inches from his lips.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He sets the cup down with a sharp clink, coffee sloshing over the rim. “Sorry. Apparently, there’s now a Twitter—or X—war about the finger painting comment.”
“Social media—bringing out the best in humanity since forever.” I smile at him.
I watch the steam rise from his untouched, poisoned coffee. This isn’t supposed to be complicated.
“I’m so sorry. Now she wants me to ‘craft a response that captures the emotional devastation of a misunderstood artistic vision.’” He makes air quotes, rolling his eyes. “I’m pretty sure she got that phrase from a soap opera.”
I can’t help it. I laugh. A real laugh.
“Could be worse. You could deal with drunk people screaming about their ex while you’re trying to make their martini.”
“True.” He smiles, a genuine, tired smile that makes my stomach do a slow, sick flip. “At least my pretentious friends use a thesaurus for their meltdowns.”
“Okay, but be honest. Do you like the work she shows, or is it all just expensive nonsense?”
“God, you’re direct.” But he’s grinning. “Some of it’s brilliant. Some of it’s exactly what you think it is.”
“And you can tell the difference?”
“Usually. Though I have terrible taste in everything else, so perhaps I’m not the best judge.”
“Define everything else.”
“Well, my Spotify playlist is basically every guilty pleasure pop song from the 2000s. All the songs you pretended not to like but secretly sang in your car.”
“No way. Give me specifics.”
“Okay, but you can’t judge me.” He leans forward and lowers his voice. “My current favorite workout song is ‘My Humps’ by the Black-Eyed Peas.”
I nearly choke on my coffee. “I’m sorry, what?”
“It’s motivational! The beat is perfect for cardio!”
“Oh my God, you’re serious.” I’m laughing so hard I’m almost crying. “The sophisticated art photographer gets pumped up by Fergie singing about her lady lumps.”
“Don’t forget the milkshake song. That’s on there, too.”
“Kelis? Really?”
“It’s an anthem of feminine empowerment,” he says with complete seriousness.
“You did not try to make ‘Milkshake’ sound intellectual.”
“I’m just saying, she knew her worth and wasn’t afraid to charge for her expertise.”
“I’m dying. Actually dying. You’re insane.”
This is not how I expected this morning to go. When I planned to poison this man, I didn’t think I’d end up enjoying his company. Or finding myself attracted to someone I’m supposed to kill.
He’s funny and smells like sin, and he barely seems to notice that I exist as anything other than a conversation partner. Which is a good thing.
Yes, a good thing.
He glances at his cup, then at me, as if he sensed something. As if he knows.
“So, this is a change of pace from the bar. A lot less…sticky.”
A small, humorless smile touches my lips. “It’s not the spilled drinks that make it sticky. It’s the desperation. After eight hours of it, you feel like you need to scrape it off your skin.”
A genuine laugh escapes him, bright and unexpected. “And how do you do that?”
“Usually with something that sounds like it could level a building.”
“So, head-banging?”
“It’s not head-banging, it’s appreciating the emotional honesty of unfiltered rage.”
“Right, because nothing says emotional honesty like Cookie Monster vocals.”
“Hey, at least I’m not pretending ‘My Humps’ is a feminist statement.”
“Touché.” He reaches for his coffee again, fingers wrapping around the handle. “You know, you’re nothing like what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Someone more...”
He pauses, thinking, and I notice how his tongue darts out slightly when he’s concentrating. Stop noticing things like that.
“People-person-y? You are a bartender after all.”
“God, no. People are exhausting.” I lean back. “I’m excellent at pretending to care about their problems, but honestly? Half of them deserve whatever emotional crisis they’re crying into their martini about.”
His face lights up. “Right? I spend my days smiling at collectors who think buying art makes them interesting, when really they’re rich and boring.”
“So we’re both professional people-pleasers who secretly hate people.”
He laughs. “I guess so.”
He tips the poisoned mug toward his lips. Steam curls between us, warm as a breath. His mouth opens, and for a split second, I swear I can taste the bitterness on my tongue.
One swallow away from the end.