Chapter 13
Thirteen
“It could be worse.” Alex tries as I gasp for breath when the seamstress accidentally stabs me with the needle.
That’s the fourth time that’s happened.
I do a quick intuition check—habit now. Feel for her energy. Her intention.
Not anger. Not malice directed at me specifically. Something else. Frustration? Sadness? The sharp little pains feel almost... deliberate. Like she’s trying to keep me alert. Keep me from floating away into dissociation while I stand here in a dress a serial killer picked for me.
Stay awake, the needle pricks say. Pay attention. Don’t check out.
Or.
She hates me.
Over a murderer.
Or maybe she’s trying to help in the only way she can.
We’re in the empty office across from Dom’s. The one that used to be Amber’s before Dom fired her for trying to frame him with a used condom. The desk is still here. The chairs. The filing cabinet. Just no Amber.
Just me, Alex, and a seamstress who keeps accidentally stabbing me while I stand in the most expensive dress I’ve ever worn.
The dress Marcus picked for me.
It’s beautiful. I hate that it’s beautiful. Iridescent teal that shifts to bronze in the light. Floor-length. Form-fitting. A high slit up the left thigh. Square neckline. Back keyhole with a button closure.
The fabric feels wrong against my skin. Not the texture—that’s perfect, expensive, silk blend that probably costs more per yard than I make in a day.
But the intention woven into it. I can feel Marcus in every seam.
His control in the fitted waist. His possession in the high slit. His claim in the neckline.
He chose this. Chose how he wants me to look. How he wants to present me. What he wants others to see when they look at his property.
I want to set it on fire.
“Sorry, sweetie.” The seamstress—Mariana, she introduced herself—adjusts a pin near my ribs. “Slippery fingers today.”
She doesn’t sound sorry. And when I glance down, she’s not meeting my eyes. Just focusing on her work with that professional efficiency that comes from doing this too many times.
Alex is perched on Amber’s old desk, swinging her legs. Her birthday cake from Sharon in her lap that she’s eating with a fork. Trying to look casual. Trying to pretend this is normal. That her best friend isn’t being fitted for a dress to attend a fundraiser with a serial killer.
We’ve been trying to talk in code the whole time. Can’t say anything direct. Not here. Not when Dom’s office is right across the hall. Not when walls have ears and NDAs have teeth.
“The fabric is interesting,” Alex says, studying the dress. Her fork swirling around the air. “Very... specific.”
Translation? Marcus picked this himself, didn’t he?
“Very specific,” I agree. “Not something I would have chosen.”
Translation? I hate everything about this.
“But it photographs well.” Alex pulls out her phone. Pretends to check the time. “The color will look good in pictures.”
Translation? He’s going to parade you around. Document this. Make it look real.
My stomach turns.
Mariana pins the hem. Another accidental jab to my ankle.
“Ow.”
“So sorry.” Still not meeting my eyes. “Almost done.”
It’s already nearing four. The office is getting ready to close for the day. I can hear people packing up. Voices in the hallway. The elevator dinging. Friday feels like a lifetime away and also like tomorrow.
Two days. I have Two days to prepare for this.
Two days to figure out how to survive being Marcus Ashford’s accessory.
“Turn,” Mariana instructs.
I turn. The dress shifts. Catches light. Looks like something from a magazine. Like something a politician’s girlfriend would wear to impress donors.
That’s the point, isn’t it? That’s exactly the point.
Alex meets my eyes in the reflection of Amber’s old window. That look. The one that says we’ll figure this out.
I don’t know how. But if Alex says we will, I believe her.
“You’re handling this better than most,” Mariana says quietly. Pinning the back seam.
I freeze. “Most?”
She doesn’t look up. Keeps working. “I dress a lot of girls for Mr. Ashford’s events.” Pause. Careful. “You’re not the first.”
Alex stops swinging her legs.
I can’t breathe. Can’t move. The dress suddenly feels tighter. The pins sharper.
“The others...” I start.
“Didn’t handle it as well.” Mariana’s voice is flat. Professional. But there’s something underneath. Sympathy? Warning? “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you’re figuring things out.” She steps back. Studies her work. Finally meets my eyes. “The smart ones figure it out.”
She doesn’t say what happens to the ones who don’t. Doesn’t say how many dresses she’s made for women who disappeared. How many times she’s measured and pinned and warned, knowing it might not be enough.
She doesn’t have to.
The ring flares hot against my chest. Dahlia’s ring. One of the ones who didn’t figure it out fast enough.
My stomach drops. The serpent at my spine coils tight.
Other women. Other fundraisers. Other beautiful dresses. And where are they now?
Dead in alleys. Disposed of by Dom’s cleanup crew. Erased. Like they never existed.
Mariana has been dressing victims. Maybe for years. And she can’t stop it. Can only stand here with her pins and her careful warnings and hope the smart ones figure it out in time.
Mariana finishes marking the final adjustments. Quick. Efficient. “All done. I’ll have the alterations completed by tomorrow. It’ll be delivered to your apartment Friday morning.”
“Thank you,” I manage.
She nods. Packs up her supplies. Pauses at the door. Looks back at me standing there in this beautiful, terrible dress.
“Be careful, honey. Hang the dress on the door when you’re finished changing.”
Then she’s gone.
Alex and I sit in silence for a moment. Me still in the dress. Her on the desk with her cake. Both of us processing.
“She knows,” Alex finally says.
“She knows.”
“Other women, Dylan. He’s done this before.”
“With Dom’s help.” The pieces clicking together. “This is part of Dom’s service. Not just body disposal. But... arranging them. Setting up the dates. Making it look consensual.”
Alex’s face goes pale. “We need to find them.”
“We need to survive Friday first.” I start unzipping the dress. Desperate to get it off. To get out of this skin that isn’t mine. “Then we can dive into his ex-girlfriends.”
Alex helps me. Careful with the pins still in place. When I’m finally back in my own clothes—my boring work clothes that don’t cost a month’s rent—I can breathe again.
The temperature shift is immediate. The dress was cold, even though the room was warm. Marcus’s intention was cold. Now my own clothes feel like armor. Protection. Mine.
“This morning’s card was the Eight of Swords,” Alex says. Quiet. Meaningful.
I know that card. The woman bound and blindfolded. Surrounded by swords. Trapped.
But the bindings are loose. The swords don’t actually touch her. She could escape if she just realized she wasn’t as trapped as she thinks.
“You think I can get out of this.”
“I think we can turn it into an opportunity.” Alex slides off the desk. Comes to stand in front of me. “You’re going to that fundraiser. You have to. But Dylan—you’re going to be in the room. With his donors. His connections. His inner circle.”
I start to see it. “Intelligence gathering.”
“Exactly.” Her eyes light up. That Alex-energy. That certainty. “Dom gave me Marcus’s financials to audit. Routine work he said. But it’s everything. Every payment. Every donor. Every connection.”
“When did he—”
“This morning, remember? He called me in early, handed me a flash drive, told me to make sure everything’s clean for the transition.” She grins. Fierce. “He has no idea what I’m going to find.”
“So you work the financials—”
“And you work the room.” She grabs my hands. “You play the flirt. The girlfriend. The doting date. You smile and charm and let them think you’re just a pretty accessory.”
My throat tightens at the words. Play the girlfriend. My body rejects it violently—nausea rising, serpent spine coiling.
Which means letting Marcus touch me. Dance with me. Pose for photos with his arm around my waist. Smile like I want this while my intuition screams danger and Dahlia’s ring burns warnings against my heart.
I can perform this. I’ve been performing for five years. I can smile and flirt and pretend my skin doesn’t crawl every time he gets close.
I have to.
“While I’m actually listening to everything they say.”
“Exactly.” She squeezes. “Role reversal. I do your analytical investigation thing. You do my social butterfly thing.”
This is what Alex does. What she’s always done. Takes my spiral and turns it into action. Takes my fear and weaponizes it. Gives me something to control when I feel powerless.
And I love her for it. Need it. Even as I recognize the pattern.
She’s managing my emotions because I can’t. And that’s okay. That’s what dandelions do—grow together, survive together, hold each other up when the concrete gets too heavy.
It’s insane.
It might work.
“We dig deeper,” I say slowly. “At the fundraiser. Turn the trap into an opportunity.”
“Dandelions grow through concrete.” Alex’s voice is steady. Sure. “They wouldn’t give up. Neither will we.”
If I have to play his girlfriend, I’ll play it so well he won’t see me gathering evidence against him.
If I have to smile and flirt and charm his donors, I’ll do it while memorizing names and connections and every detail that might help us later.
If I have to dance with the devil, I’ll lead.
“Friday night,” I say. “We go to war.”
If I survive that long. If I don’t break. If I’m as smart as Mariana thinks I am.
“Friday night,” Alex agrees. “We go to war.”
She pulls the Eight of Swords card from her pocket. Shows it to me. The bound woman surrounded by swords.
But her feet are free. The swords don’t touch her. She could walk away if she just realized.
“You’re not as trapped as they think you are,” Alex says softly. “Plus I’ll drive you and stay nearby.”
I look at the card. At the dress. At my best friend who believes in me even when I don’t believe in myself.
Maybe she’s right.
Or maybe I’m about to walk into the same trap that killed Dahlia and all the others. Maybe I’m not special. Not different. Not smart enough.
But I’m going anyway. Because I have no choice. And if I’m going, I’m going as a weapon.
“Let’s go home,” Alex says. “We have work to do.”