Chapter 16
Sixteen
I don’t watch him approach.
Some instinct says don’t track him like prey watches a predator—it only makes them hungrier.
So I keep my eyes on Alaina, keep my breathing steady, keep performing calm until—
“There you are.”
He’s beside me now. Too close. His hand landing on the small of my back before I can step away.
That wrongness that makes my spine coil. That copper taste flooding my mouth.
Alaina’s hand tightens on my arm. Brief. Warning. Then releases.
“Marcus.” She turns, smooth and professional. “I was just getting to know your lovely date.”
“I see that.” He moves closer. His hand pressing harder against my spine. Claiming. “Monopolizing the prettiest woman in the room, Madame Speaker?”
“Just showing her around.” Alaina’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “These fundraisers can be overwhelming for newcomers.”
“Dylan’s tougher than she looks.” Marcus’s hand slides lower on my back. Not quite appropriate. Not quite inappropriate. “Aren’t you, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart.
My skin crawls.
“The Councilwoman from the Third District was looking for you,” Alaina says to Marcus. “Something about the permit applications.”
It’s a dismissal. An attempt to pull him away from me.
Marcus doesn’t move.
“She can wait.” His thumb traces a small circle through the fabric on my back. Slow. Deliberate. Like we’ve done this a thousand times. Like my body belongs to him. “I’ve barely spent any time with my girl tonight.”
My girl.
I go still.
Two million people think I’m his girl. Think I smiled at those flowers. Think I want this.
The narrative is already written. Has been since that Instagram video. Since Dom forced me into this dress. Since I walked into this ballroom wearing his choice of fabric against my skin.
She was his girlfriend. She left him. She moved to DC for a job. So sad.
No one will question it. No one questions it when mixed girls from Mount Airy disappear into better opportunities. That’s the story everyone already believes. That’s what we’re supposed to want—to escape, to move up, to leave Philadelphia behind.
And if my body never turns up? Well. Philadelphia is a big city. People disappear. Especially people from the wrong neighborhoods. People whose mothers don’t have lawyers. People whose fathers are already dead.
People like me.
“Dylan?” Alaina’s voice cuts through. Concerned. “Are you alright? You look pale.”
I’m not alright. Standing in a ballroom full of people who know exactly what Marcus is and can’t stop him. Wearing a dress that cost more than my rent, picked out by a serial killer. Collecting business cards and escape routes because that’s all these women can offer me.
Not justice. Survival.
But I can’t say any of that.
“Just tired,” I manage. “It’s been a long week.”
“Of course.” Alaina reaches out, squeezes my hand one final time. “It was lovely meeting you, Dylan. I do hope we’ll see each other again.”
I hope you survive long enough for us to see each other again, she means.
“Thank you,” I say. “For everything.”
She nods. Walks away. Leaves me alone with Marcus.
His hand is still on my back. Warm. Heavy. Claiming.
“What were you two talking about?” he asks. Casual. Light. Like he doesn’t already know.
“Politics,” I say. “She was explaining how fundraisers work.”
“Alaina’s good at that.” His voice sharpens slightly. “She’s been watching me for years. Thinks she’s subtle about it.”
He knows. He knows about the whisper network. The business cards. The escape routes.
And he doesn’t care.
Because he knows they can’t stop him. Knows his grandfather’s portrait hangs on the wall. Knows Henry Caldwell will make any problem disappear. Knows that three generations of Ashford men have learned exactly how to get away with murder in this city.
“Come on.” He steers me toward the dance floor. “They’re about to start the music. I want everyone to see us together.”
Everyone. All these donors and judges and ward leaders who’ve been protecting Ashfords since before I was born.
He wants them to see. To witness. To know.
She’s mine, he’s saying. I’ve chosen her. She belongs to me now.
But there’s nowhere to run. No exit I can take that won’t end my career, destroy Alex, condemn us both. Dom owns me. Marcus is claiming me. And the system that was supposed to protect people like me was built by men like them.
So I let him lead me to the dance floor. Let him pull me close. Let him put his hands on my waist like he has every right to touch me.
And I smile. Because that’s what women do. That’s what we’ve always done.
We smile and we survive and we pass business cards to the next girl and hope it’s enough.
The music starts. Something slow. Romantic.
Marcus pulls me closer. His hand slides from my waist to my hip. Lower than appropriate. His thumb hooks into the fabric at my hip bone—territorial, calculated, daring me to object in front of everyone.
I don’t object. Can’t. A hundred people are watching us dance and every single one of them thinks this is romantic.
His breath against my ear. Wet.
“You’re shaking,” he observes.
Not concerned. Amused. The way you’d note that a trapped animal is trembling before you decide what to do with it.
“Cold,” I lie.
“Liar.” He says it like an endearment. His hand tightens on my hip. “I can feel your heartbeat through your dress. Right here.” His thumb presses harder against my hip bone. “Racing.”
He’s not wrong. My heart is slamming against my ribs so hard he can probably feel it in my spine where his other hand rests.
“Relax,” he murmurs. “Everyone’s watching. You don’t want them to think something’s wrong.”
Threat wrapped in comfort. Smile or else.
So I smile.
Over his shoulder, I can see Alaina watching from across the room. Patricia Joyce. Maria Santos. All of them watching. All of them helpless.
Three years of evidence. And now me.
I close my eyes. Let Marcus lead. Let him think he’s won.
The music swells. Marcus spins me. I follow perfectly.
“When I went to pick you up, you weren’t there.” His tone is light but there’s an edge underneath. “I went all the way to Fishtown.”
All the way to Fishtown. Like it’s Siberia. It’s twenty minutes.
“We never discussed you picking me up.” I keep my voice professional. Neutral. “I told you I’d meet you here.”
His jaw tightens. His hand presses harder against my lower back.
“I thought it was implied.”
“I needed to prepare. Review my firm’s current city business before networking.” I try to sound steady. Reasonable. “Dom mentioned—”
“Dom.” Marcus cuts me off. Something flickers in his eyes. “You talked to Dom about tonight?”
“He’s my boss. Of course I—”
“I’m your date.” His voice drops. Harder now. “I should have picked you up. That’s how this works.”
That’s how this works. Like there are rules. Like I agreed to them.
The song ends. Thank god. But Marcus doesn’t release me. Just steers me off the dance floor toward a cluster of men by the windows.
Union leaders. IBEW Local 98 pins. Loud laughs and hands that carve the air when they talk.
“Gentlemen,” Marcus announces. All charm again, like the edge was never there. “This is Dylan Wells. She’s been handling the City Controller transition. Brilliant legal mind.”
Brilliant legal mind. The words should feel good. They don’t.
“Ms. Wells,” one of them says. Barrel chest, silver hair, grip that could crush concrete. “Union leadership’s been concerned about the new oversight protocols. What’s your take on—”
“Dylan’s specialty is compliance,” Marcus cuts in smoothly. His hand tightening on my waist like a leash being pulled. “She makes sure everything runs clean. Right, Dylan?”
The union leader’s eyes flick to me. Just for a second. He saw.
And then he looks back at Marcus and nods along like nothing happened.
Because nothing did happen. Not in this room. Not in this world. A man talked over a woman. A tale as old as Philadelphia politics. Why would anyone notice? Why would anyone care?
I’m watching them all choose not to see it. Watching them smile and shake hands and pretend this is normal. And maybe for them it is. Maybe they’ve watched Marcus do this with a dozen women. A hundred.
Maybe they’ve done it themselves.
“The protocols are—” I start.
“Complicated,” Marcus finishes. “But we’re streamlining the process. Making it easier for everyone. That’s what good government looks like, right?” He’s already turning us away. “Excuse us, gentlemen. So many people to see.”
We’re walking before I can finish. Before I can say anything real.
My chest tightens.
He does it again with the next group. Comcast executives near the central tables. Expensive suits, calculating eyes. One of them has brought his wife—blonde, botoxed, diamonds at her throat that cost more than my apartment.
“Dylan Wells, Draven & Associates,” Marcus introduces. “She’s been my right hand this month.”
Right hand. Not colleague. Not legal counsel. His.
Notice the theme? Everything’s his except the actual person.
“Ms. Wells,” one of them—slicked-back hair, Rolex catching chandelier light—extends his hand. I shake it. “Marcus mentioned you went to Temple Law. My daughter’s considering their program. What would you say about—”
“Dylan’s modest,” Marcus interrupts. Squeezes my waist. “Top of her class. Brilliant researcher. She’ll pass the bar this summer, won’t you?”
Oh, will I? Thanks for letting me know my own plans.
The wife is watching me. Watching Marcus’s hand on my waist, the way he answers for me, the way I’ve stopped trying to speak.
And she smiles.
Not sympathetic. Not concerned.
Approving.
Good girl, her smile says. You’re learning how this works.
My stomach turns. Because she’s not part of Alaina’s network. She’s not slipping me business cards or escape routes. She’s one of the ones who made it. Who survived by becoming part of the machinery.
Is that my future?
Standing next to Marcus at fundraisers in twenty years, watching him parade some new girl, smiling because I learned to stop fighting?
The thought makes me want to vomit.