Chapter 16 #2
He’s answering for me again. Around me. Through me.
“Actually—” I try.
“We should discuss that development project,” Marcus pivots to the man. His hand still locked on my waist. “The one on Delaware Avenue. Dylan’s reviewed all the zoning compliance. Everything’s in order. Right, Dylan?”
It’s not a question. It’s a cue.
“Right,” I manage.
Third group. Mayor’s aide and Councilman Edwards from the River Wards—nervous energy, always checking his phone.
“Councilman Edwards, this is Dylan—”
“We’ve met.” Edwards smiles at me. Actually acknowledges me. “At the budget hearing. You asked that question about the pension fund’s unfunded liability that made everyone squirm.”
Oh thank god. Someone who remembers I have a brain.
“Yes, the actuarial assumptions seemed—” I’m going to finish a sentence.
For the first time tonight, someone is actually listening to me.
“—optimistic given the demographic trends. The thirty-year projections assume workforce growth that contradicts Census Bureau forecasts. If you factor in the pension fund’s current asset allocation—”
Edwards is nodding. Taking mental notes. Looking at me like I’m a professional. Like I’m a person.
I’d forgotten what that felt like.
“That’s exactly what I’ve been—” Edwards starts.
“Aggressive.” Marcus’s voice cuts through. Smooth. Easy. His arm tightening around me like a leash being pulled. “Dylan’s always finding the angles. It’s what makes her so valuable.”
Edwards blinks. Looks between us.
I watch the decision form. The question he’s weighing: Is she being silenced? Should I push back?
And then I watch him decide: Not my problem.
“Well,” Edwards says, turning back to Marcus. “We should definitely discuss this further. Have your people call my people.”
Your people. Not Dylan. Not the person who actually had the analysis. Your people.
I am erased.
And Edwards knows it. Knew it the moment Marcus cut me off. Made his choice anyway.
That’s what breaks something in me. Not Marcus—I expected Marcus. But Edwards seemed decent. Seemed like he might be different.
No one is different. Not when it costs them something.
“Dylan,” Marcus’s voice has an edge now. “We should get another drink.”
“I’m good.”
But Marcus is already moving me. His hand tight. Steering.
“Excuse us,” he tosses over his shoulder at someone he bumps into as we near the bar. He holds up two fingers as we get closer. The bartender moving quickly at his wordless demand.
My chest caves inward. That sick drop—like missing a stair in the dark.
He keeps advertising my brilliance while stealing my voice mid-sentence. Everyone watching. Everyone thinking this is normal.
I’m a prop. An accessory. Proof of his desirability and power.
Never a person.
“You’re tense,” Marcus murmurs near my ear. “Relax.”
Relax. While he controls every word from my mouth. Every movement of my body.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“You’re perfect.” His hand slides up my back. Thumb against my spine. “Everyone’s impressed. They all want to know who you are.”
Who I am. Except he won’t let me show them.
“Marcus—”
“Let’s go somewhere quieter.” His voice drops. “The XIX has private dining rooms. More exclusive. The real players are up there.”
The jokes stop.
My stomach drops. The XIX—the restaurant on the 19th floor. Private rooms. No cameras in the hallways up there. I know because I’ve reviewed the building’s security protocols for Dom.
“We should stay—”
“The Union League members are meeting upstairs.” He’s already moving. Hand firm on my lower back now. Pushing. “Important connections for your career.”
My career. The carrot he dangles while hiding the stick.
“I should text Alex—” I try. “She’s waiting for—”
“Alex can wait.” His grip tightens. “This won’t take long.”
Won’t take long. The words men say before everything takes too long.
We’re in the hallway now. Marble floors echoing. Fewer people. The noise of the ballroom fading behind us like a door closing.
My body starts sending distress signals I can’t control.
First my hands. Trembling so hard I have to grip my clutch to hide it.
Then my legs. That weakness behind the knees, like I’ve been standing too long, like gravity is pulling wrong.
Then my stomach. Rolling. Clenching. The champagne I drank threatening to come back up.
And my throat. God, my throat. Like invisible hands are already wrapped around my neck.
That’s how he does it. That’s how he kills them. He chokes them. And you’re walking toward him like a lamb to slaughter.
My phone is in my purse. Right there. Three letters away from extraction.
But my hands won’t move. My brain is cataloging escape routes—the Wawa at Broad and Walnut, the Chancellor Street exit, anywhere but that elevator—and my body isn’t cooperating.
My heels click too loud on marble.
“Marcus, I really think—”
My voice comes out wrong. Strangled. Like I’m already being choked.
He hears it. I see it in his eyes—that flicker of recognition. Of pleasure.
He likes that I sound like I’m dying.
“Dylan.” He stops. Turns me to face him. Both hands on my waist now. “You trust me, right?”
No. God no. Never.
“Of course,” I lie.
“Then come with me. I promised some very important people you’d be there. The kind that can make your career.”
My career. His hands. This hallway.
“Former Speaker Dupree wanted to discuss—”
“Alaina can wait too.” Impatient now. Mask slipping. “Everyone can wait. This is important, Dylan. For us.”
Us. There is no us. There’s only him and what he wants.
We’re at the elevator. An elevator at the end of the hallway. Marble floors. Gold fixtures. Staff in crisp uniforms suddenly very busy not looking.
The serpent at my spine goes into overdrive. That crawling sensation spreading up my back, wrapping around my throat. Coiling so tight I can barely breathe.
“Marcus, I—”
“Dylan.” His voice is soft now. The voice you’d use with a spooked horse. With prey that might bolt. “The elevator’s right here.”
His hand is on my lower back. Pressing. Guiding.
I can’t feel my feet anymore. Can’t feel anything below my knees. My body has decided that if I’m going to walk into my own murder, it’s not going to participate.
“Just a quick drink upstairs. Important people. Good for your career.” His thumb strokes my spine through the dress. Slow. “Then we’ll come back down. I promise.”
Promise.
How many women heard that promise?
His hand reaches past me. Presses the button.
The elevator dings.
The sound is so loud in the quiet hallway that I flinch. Actually flinch. Like a gunshot.
Marcus notices. His smile doesn’t change but something behind his eyes does. Something hungry.
The doors slide open.
Empty. Waiting. A small box lined with mirrors so I can watch myself be taken.
“After you,” Marcus says.
His hand presses harder against my back. Not pushing. Not yet. Just... present. Reminding me he could push if he wanted to.
I think about Dahlia. Standing in an alley. His hands on her throat.
I think about the paralegal from Kensington whose LinkedIn still says Chicago.
I think about Alex, outside waiting, watching my blue dot on her phone, not knowing I’m about to disappear from a hallway with no cameras.
If I get in that elevator, I’m never coming out.
And I still can’t move.
My feet are frozen. My voice is gone. My body has shut down because it knows—it knows—that this is where women like me die.
The elevator waits.
Marcus waits.
And somewhere in the ballroom behind us, a hundred people drink champagne and pretend they don’t know exactly what’s happening in this hallway.