Chapter 12
Twelve
The call comes Wednesday morning while I’m getting ready for City Hall.
Alex left an hour ago—early meeting with Dom about quarterly reports or some other accounting thing I tuned out while she explained it over coffee. She didn’t even mind despite the fact that today is her birthday.
The loft feels too quiet without her. Just me and the murder board hidden behind the tapestry.
I’m pulling on my coat when my phone rings.
Dom.
My stomach drops before I even answer.
“Sir.”
“Dylan.” His voice is clipped. Efficient. The tone that means he’s already decided something and I’m just going to have to deal with it. “I need you at the office.”
“I thought I was working from City Hall this week—”
“Now, Dylan.”
He hangs up.
I stare at my phone. At the black screen. At my own reflection in the glass looking pale and worried.
That’s not a good sign.
Nothing about this is a good sign.
I grab my bag. Lock up. Head downstairs to call an Uber because whatever Dom wants, it’s not optional. It’s never optional.
And I don’t have time for public transportation.
The Uber drops me at the corner of the building fifteen minutes later.
I haven’t been here in over a week. Not since Dom assigned me to work from Marcus’s office at City Hall. Not since I’ve been able to avoid this building and all its memories.
The stairwell. The confession. Meeting Marcus for the first time in Dom’s office while I dissociated hard enough to perform like my life depended on it.
Because it did.
Walking through the lobby feels wrong. Familiar and foreign at the same time. Like coming home to a house that was never really yours.
Sharon looks up from reception. Her face does something complicated when she sees me. She mouths something—looks like “Dom’s office” or maybe “be careful”—then glances toward the security camera.
She can’t warn me. Not out loud. Not here.
Just nods.
“Dylan.”
“Sharon.”
That’s it. That’s the whole exchange.
But I feel her watching me as I head to the elevator. Feel the weight of whatever she’s not saying pressing against my spine.
Sharon’s been here twenty years. Survived Dom longer than anyone. Knows where all the bodies are buried—literally, probably. And even she can’t help me. Can only watch me walk into whatever’s waiting upstairs. Can only mouth warnings she knows I can’t act on.
If Sharon’s scared for me, I should be terrified.
The elevator takes forever. I consider the stairs—they’re right there, the emergency exit, the same stairs I used to take all the time—but I can’t.
The elevator dings. I step in. Hit the button for the fourth floor.
Dom’s floor.
My body’s warning bells begin to chime. The serpent at the base of my spine start to coil. Not the full warning system from when Marcus ambushed me outside our apartment. Just the preliminary alert.
The something’s wrong, sensor activating.
Fourth floor. The doors open.
I step out into Dom’s hallway. Thick carpet. Dark wood. The kind of old-money aesthetic that screams power and precedent and we’ve been here longer than you’ve been alive.
Each step toward his office feels heavier than the last.
My heels sink into the carpet. My throat starts to tighten. The ring gets hotter.
I reach his door. Knock twice.
“Come in.”
I open the door.
And freeze.
Marcus is already there.
Standing by the window. Backlit by gray February light. Wearing one of his suits—navy pinstripe, expensive, the kind that costs more than my monthly rent. Hair styled perfectly. He smiles when he sees me. Wide. Wrong.
“There she is.”
He moves toward the door. Toward me. Too close. Always too close.
I sidestep him. Fast. Automatic. Put the bookshelf at my back and the desk between us.
Dom sits behind his desk. Watching this play out. That slight smirk on his face like he’s enjoying a private joke.
I’m the joke. I’m always the joke.
“Dylan.” Dom gestures vaguely. “Sit.”
I don’t sit. Stay standing. Keep the bookshelf behind me and my exit route mapped—doors to my left, Marcus is between me and it, but if I move fast enough—
“How’s working with Marcus going?” Dom leans back in his chair. Casual. Conversational.
This isn’t casual. Nothing with Dom is casual.
“Very well, sir.” I keep my voice professional. Level. The paralegal voice I’ve perfected over five years.
But I can feel it cracking. That performance I used to be able to maintain for hours. The dissociation that let me bury Dylan Wells so deep only Dominic Draven’s paralegal remained.
It’s not working anymore.
I’m trapped inside myself. Feeling everything. Unable to escape into numbness.
“She’s been exceptional,” Marcus adds. Still too close. Still watching me like I’m something he’s considering buying. “Really exceeded my expectations.”
The way he says exceptional. The way his eyes linger.
My skin crawls.
“Good, good.” Dom nods. Pleased. “I knew you two would work well together.”
Pay attention. Danger.
“You’ve finished the City Controller transition documentation already?” Dom continues.
“Yes sir. Complete review of municipal code compliance, administrative procedures, budgetary oversight protocols. It’s all documented and filed.”
“Ahead of schedule,” Marcus adds. Like he’s proud. Like I did this for him instead of to get away from him as fast as possible.
Dom leans forward. Fingers steepled. That look on his face. The one that means he’s about to spring the trap.
“I have a job for you, Dylan.”
My stomach drops.
Here it comes.
“Of course, sir. What do you need?”
“Bonus pay,” he adds. Like that makes this better. Like money fixes whatever’s coming.
It won’t. I already know it won’t.
Dom and Marcus exchange a look. Brief. Significant. They planned this. Together. Before I even got here.
“Friday night,” Dom says. “Marcus has a fundraiser.”
Oh no.
“Major donor event. Black tie. The city’s power players will be there—council members, state representatives, business leaders. The people who matter.”
Oh no oh no oh no.
“I’d like you to accompany him.”
The words hang in the air. Heavy. Terrible.
Accompany him.
Not attend as firm representation. Not network on behalf of Draven & Associates.
Accompany him.
Like a date. Like his girlfriend. Like the narrative he’s been building—Instagram, flowers at my apartment, now this.
“Sir—” My voice comes out wrong. Strained. “I’m not sure that’s appropriate—”
“Appropriate?” Dom’s voice sharpens. Ice under the professional tone. “You work for this firm, Dylan. Marcus is our client. This is work.”
“But—”
“Is there a problem?”
The threat is clear. Crystal clear. Refuse and lose everything. My job. My access to Dom’s operation. The investigation. Any chance of finding out what happened to Dahlia and the others.
Refuse and Dom will destroy me.
Marcus is watching this. Enjoying it. That smile playing at his lips. He knows I can’t say no. Knows Dom’s trapped me perfectly.
“This is an incredible opportunity for you,” Dom continues. Softer now. Reasonable. The velvet glove over the iron fist. “Networking with city officials, major donors, the firms that run this city. The kind of connections that could determine your entire career trajectory.”
“Plus,” Marcus adds, “it’ll be fun. Good food, open bar, dancing.” That smile widens. “I promise you’ll enjoy yourself.”
I won’t.
“Besides,” Marcus continues, “after that Instagram video, people are expecting to see us together. My donors have been asking about you. About the woman who made me wait outside her building with flowers.” He smiles. “They think it’s romantic.”
Two million views.
Two million strangers think I’m dating him.
Think I smiled at those flowers instead of screaming.
Think I want this.
My mom probably saw it. My law school classmates. Everyone I’ve ever known now thinks I’m willingly with a serial killer who makes my skin crawl. He’s already rewritten my story. Already made me his in the eyes of everyone who matters.
And now he’s making it real.
I want to vomit.
“If I’m representing the firm at a major event—” I try. Desperate. Grasping. “—I should have support. Alex from accounting has excellent social skills for donor relations—”
“This isn’t a group outing, Dylan.” Dom’s voice turns cold. “Marcus requested you. Specifically. As his personal guest.” He emphasizes personal. “Alex from accounting wasn’t invited.”
I try a different angle. “But preparing for a black-tie event—the dress, hair, makeup—I’ll need help—”
“Already arranged.” Marcus sounds so pleased with himself. “I’ve got my designer ready to take your measurements. We’ll get you fitted this afternoon. I want you to look perfect.”
Perfect. That word again. The one that means whatever he decides it means. The one that requires my body to cooperate with his vision.
I’m doing that thing where I catalog horror like evidence. Designer fitting. Measurements. Strangers’ hands on my waist, hips, chest. Marcus watching. Deciding. Approving.
My brain’s trying to turn this into a case file. Make it logical. Manageable. Provable.
But there’s no case file for this. No evidence that would hold up in court.
“The fuck.”
It slips out before I can stop it.
Two words. Barely a whisper. But in the quiet of Dom’s office, they’re loud.
Five years of perfect professionalism. Five years of “yes sir” and measured tones and never breaking composure.
Gone.
And I can’t take it back. Can’t rewind. Can’t pretend I didn’t just show them exactly how much this is destroying me.
Marcus falters. Just for a second. That smile freezing.
Then he throws his head back and laughs. Actually laughs. Delighted.
“I like when you’re honest, Dylan.” His eyes bright. Predatory. “It’s refreshing.”
He likes that I broke. Likes that he got under my skin. Likes that he’s winning.
Dom claps his hands together. Sharp. Decisive.
“Then it’s settled.”
It is not settled. Nothing about this is settled.
“Dylan, you’ll meet with the designer now to be fitted.” Dom’s already moving on. Already decided. “And Friday night, you’ll accompany Marcus to the fundraiser.”
He pauses. Looks at me directly. That cold blue stare that sees everything.
“Do make connections.”
The order is clear. Be charming. Be beautiful. Be Marcus’s.
“That will be all.”
Dismissed.
I stand there for a second. Legs shaking. Throat closed. The ring burning so hot against my chest I can feel it through my shirt and bra, searing into my skin.
Friday. Three days from now. I have to go with Marcus to a black-tie fundraiser. Alone. In a dress he picked. Looking perfect for him. In front of donors and officials and everyone who matters in this city.
Building the narrative. Making it look real. Making it look like I want this.
And I can’t say no.
“See you Friday, Dylan.” Marcus’s voice follows me as I turn toward the door. “It’s going to be perfect.”
Not it will be nice. Not I hope you enjoy it.
It’s going to be perfect.
My stomach drops. That copper taste floods my mouth—the same taste from the stairwell, from the alley, from every moment my body has tried to warn me I’m in mortal danger.
A statement. A promise. A threat.
And suddenly I understand.
This isn’t what happened to Dahlia.
Dahlia was impulse. Opportunity. A woman who fit his type—blonde, blue-eyed, petite—asking for a cigarette outside a club. Wrong place. Wrong time. He followed her into an alley and that was it. No courtship. No flowers. No Instagram videos with two million views.
But me?
The ring burns hotter against my chest. Dahlia’s ring. Warning me. Trying to tell me something I’m only now understanding.
I don’t even fit his type. Dark hair. Brown eyes. Mixed. He was hunting Alex that night—someone who looked like Dahlia. Someone blonde and blue-eyed and small.
I’m the exact opposite.
So why me? Why the flowers, the public claiming, the designer dress, the fundraiser with donors and officials? Why build a narrative around someone who doesn’t match his pattern?
He’s not hunting me.
He’s keeping me.
And that’s so much worse.
Because I don’t know what he wants. Don’t know what role I’m supposed to play in whatever this is. Dahlia was disposal. I’m being displayed. Collected. Made into something.
The serpent at my spine coils tighter.
What does he want from me that he didn’t want from her?
I grab my bag with shaking hands. Force my legs to move. One step. Two.
I have to walk past him to leave. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t step aside. Makes me squeeze past. Close enough that I can smell his cologne. Feel the heat of him. Everything about him radiates wrong-wrong-wrong.
My hand fumbles with the door handle. Slippery. My palms are sweating.
The door closes behind me.
I lean against the wall in the hallway. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t process what just happened.
I need Alex. Need to call her right now. Need to hear her voice tell me we’ll figure this out, that we’ll find a way, that I’m not alone.
But I can’t tell her.
Can’t. Because Alex will try to stop this. Will do something reckless. Will storm into Dom’s office or confront Marcus or get herself hurt trying to protect me. She already hit him with a glass door. She’s already too close to this danger.
And if Dom finds out I told her—if he thinks I’m not playing along, not complying—he’ll destroy both of us.
I have to protect her. Even if it means lying to her. Even if it means facing Friday alone.
Even if it means making the same mistake that almost destroyed us. Deciding what she can handle instead of trusting her to choose.
The ring is burning. Actually burning. Hot enough to hurt.
The serpent at my spine coiling tight. Squeezing.
My intuition screaming one word over and over.
Danger danger danger danger—
Friday.
Two days.
I have to go with him. Can’t refuse. Can’t run.
He’s going to dress me. Present me. Show me off to his donors like I’m his. Like I chose this. Like this is what I want.
And everyone will believe it.
Because Dom said so. Because Marcus planned it. Because I signed an NDA five years ago that gave them both the power to destroy me if I don’t comply.
The trap is complete.
Perfectly executed.
Dom’s the devil and I already sold him my soul for a paralegal salary and the promise of a law career.