49
Tess is bent over the light table with a mechanical pencil tucked behind her ear, lining up a run of wedding anniversary cards.
Sofia is at the foiling press, fingers steady on the lever, laying a kiss of gold over a line that reads, thank you for being my person .
The studio smells like warm paper and coffee.
It’s been a week since the white queen showed up in my mailbox.
The security measures the men put in place haven’t felt overwhelming or restrictive.
There’s a new camera above the studio’s front door and a coded keypad on the back.
If I leave for lunch, Tess or Sofia comes with me, along with the bodyguard Gideon hired, currently parked out front.
My friends are worried and hovering more than usual, but they trust their husbands to look out for me.
They also think it’s cool (then feel guilty for thinking it) that I have my own bodyguard.
I haven’t said anything to my parents. If my dad found out, he’d be tempted to put me in a nuclear bunker and slide dinner under the door.
For now, it’s enough that only my close circle knows.
The buzzer goes off in the backroom. It’s our usual Wednesday delivery of envelope stock and mailers.
Sofia glances up from the press. “Want me to go?”
“It’s okay, I’ve got it,” I call over my shoulder, moving past our card racks.
The back entrance is ours alone, a steel door with a push bar that opens into a narrow corridor where we keep shipping supplies and a pegboard full of scissors.
“I’ll help,” Tess says, still writing. “Give me thirty seconds to finish this line.”
“No problem.”
My phone rings just before I reach the back hall. Joel. I smile before I even pick up. “Hey.”
“Hey, beautiful,” he says, his voice deep and warm enough to send goosebumps prickling my skin. “I’m calling about dinner tonight.”
“What are you thinking. And if you say steak, I’m going to throw my phone against the wall.”
“I can’t imagine you throwing anything,” Joel says, laughing on the other end of the line. “Not even a temper tantrum.”
“Ha ha. How about a nice salad?”
“What? Why?” he chokes out.
“Because it’s healthy. And your heart wants healthy.”
“Would there be strips of steak in the salad?” Joel asks hopefully.
“How about tofu marinated in soy sauce so it looks like steak?”
There’s a suspicious pause. “But will it taste like steak?”
“If you use your imagination, it will.”
He groans. “Why do you do this to me?”
“Because, Joel Adams, I’m concerned about your heart,” I say pertly. “I’ve got a whole lifetime planned out for us.”
“If you’re so worried about my heart, then stop wearing those jeans that look like they’re painted on your legs.”
“Hey, I’m about to sign for a delivery. I better go.”
“Put me in your pocket while you do it,” he says. “This conversation has to be continued.”
“Bossy,” I murmur, chuckling.
I hit speaker and keep the phone in my hand while I punch the code on the back door’s keypad and pull the door. The air outside is cool against my skin.
The driver stands with a clipboard, cap pulled low. There are three stacked cartons on a dolly.
“Hi,” I say, brightly, the way you do when people haul heavy things for your little dream. “Is it the A7s and mailers?”
He nods and lifts the clipboard for me to sign. I reach for it, looking for the signature block.
Then the driver tips his chin, and the brim of the cap shifts just enough for me to see his eyes.
The same pale eyes that made my skin crawl when he asked me for directions.
My pulse spikes, my hand freezing midair.
The driver grins and closes the space between us.
I stumble back a step, Joel’s name tumbling from my lips.
Before I can scream, a white cloth appears from under the clipboard like a bad magic trick. The sharp, chemical smell hits my nose.
No, no, no .
I jerk back, but I’m too late. A hand grabs my arm and the cloth is pressed over my mouth and nose. Panic floods me. My phone slips from my hand and skitters against the concrete, screen still lit.
“Kenzie!”
Joel.
I try to fight. I claw at his wrist, but he’s stronger than I am. My head goes light and my fingers slip. The smell is everywhere—under my skin, inside my lungs. My vision starts to blur.
I hear Joel still shouting my name.
And I desperately want to answer him. I want to tell him the light in the studio was perfect this morning, that Tess said the lemons I drew looked sweet enough to bite, that Sofia wore eyeliner with a wing so sharp it could etch glass.
Most of all, I want to tell him I choose us, again and again and again.
That’s the last thing I remember before the world tilts and darkness consumes me.