Chapter 32 Violet
Chapter thirty-two
Violet
I stare at Millie’s front door, my hand poised, ready to knock.
Nerves somersault in my stomach, but I shove them down and rap my knuckles against the wood.
A beat later, the door creaks open.
“Hey,” Millie says, voice too bright, stretched thin like plastic wrap. She barely meets my eyes as she steps aside.
“Come in.”
Something about her seems... off.
Still, I force a smile and step over the threshold.
“Thanks for coming,” she blurts, wringing her hands. “I wasn’t sure you’d... yeah.” Her laugh is short and breathless.
“I figured you owed me an explanation,” I say, trying to keep my tone even.
She winces. “Yeah. I do. Totally.”
She gestures vaguely down the hall. “Do you want something to drink?”
I shake my head. “I don’t have long—I’ve got a dinner.”
Millie’s face flickers. “A work dinner?”
“Yeah.”
She nods slowly, chewing the inside of her cheek. “Will Seb be there?”
“Yeah,” I say, a little slower this time.
She nods again, eyes darting away, her tone tentative. “What about Chase?”
I hesitate. “Yes. He’ll be there too.”
Her mouth tightens, and something bitter creeps into her expression. “Of course he will.”
She looks down for a second, then back up—her eyes glassy and oddly bright.
“You know, when he thought you were behind the leaks, he paid you severance, and I even heard from Bethany he was desperate to talk to you before the board meeting. But Austen convinced him not to.” Her lips twist. “He still believed in you.”
I blink, surprised. “What are you talking about?”
“But when it was me,” she continues, tone hardening, “he didn’t even ask questions. He just cut me loose, obliterated me.”
“That’s because you did it,” I say. “You framed me, Millie.”
She flinches like I slapped her. “You can’t imagine what it was like—watching you get everything handed to you. His attention. His loyalty. His fucking heart.”
I stare at her, something cold settling in my stomach. “This was about Chase?”
Her silence is all the answer I need.
“You wanted him,” I say, stunned. “You did all this—because you wanted him? I thought our friendship was worth more than that.”
Tears well in her eyes, but there’s no apology in them. Only resentment. “He was devastated when you left, Violet. Still, he didn’t want it to be over. Even after everything you did. He didn’t want to let you go.”
My chest tightens. “After what I did? I didn’t do anything, Millie. You know that.”
Her expression cracks. “Yeah, I do.” She drops her gaze, drawing in a sharp breath before looking up again.
“At first, it wasn’t about you.” Her voice softens, and for a moment, I glimpse the friend I used to know.
“Elliot wanted details on the Monarch proposal—the numbers, the terms. But when I was in too deep to back out, that stopped being enough.”
She lowers her voice slightly, glancing toward the hallway—like she doesn’t want this part heard.
“He got reckless. Started thinking with his ego. He didn’t think framing you would ever touch him.”
“He wanted you. Because that’s what would hurt Chase the most.”
Her jaw hardens, bitterness rising in her eyes. “And he was right.”
A long pause stretches between us, and I realize—there’s no fixing this. Whatever we were, it’s gone. Some lines you can’t uncross.
“Come through,” she sighs, turning and walking down the hallway.
I hesitate. Every instinct tells me to leave. To turn around and never look back. But then I glance at Millie’s retreating back. For years, she was my person. My constant. Maybe part of me still wants to believe there’s something left worth salvaging.
One drink, I tell myself. One last conversation. Then I walk.
I step forward, the scent of cheap air freshener mingling with something sharper. Masculine. Familiar. It scratches at my memory, but before I can place it, Millie pushes open the door.
And then I understand why.
Sitting on the couch, waiting, is Elliot.
My heart lurches into my throat.
He looks awful. His shirt’s wrinkled, his brown hair greasy and unkempt, eyes bloodshot, a weird, manic glint shining through them.
He smiles when he sees me—a broad, unnatural grin.
I whip around, dread in my tone. “Millie, why’s he here?”
She tries to steer me toward him, but I dig my heels into the floor. “Don’t worry, he just wants to talk, Violet.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“You can go now, Millie.” Elliot’s voice pierces through the tension like ice.
Millie swallows hard, fear rolling off her in waves. “You never said—”
“I said go,” Elliot snaps, cutting her off. “Do you want your money or not? God knows you need it now.”
I twist around, realizing too late that Millie is already halfway out the door.
“Millie!” I shout.
She freezes, guilt flashing over her face—but only for a second.
Then she slips through the door, slamming it shut.
I rush at it, yanking at the handle, but hear the click of a lock sliding into place.
Panic claws up my chest.
“Millie! Open the door!”
I pound my fists against it, but there’s no answer. No footsteps. Nothing.
I turn slowly. Elliot is still sitting there, elbows resting on his knees, smiling like we’re old friends catching up.
My skin crawls.
“Don’t make a fuss, Violet,” he says softly.
“Come sit with me. We have a lot to talk about.”
“I’m not staying,” I stammer, backing toward the door.
“I’m leaving.”
He tilts his head like I’m a misbehaving child.
“You’ll stay,” he says, his voice syrupy but splintered underneath.
“You owe me that much.”
“I don’t owe you anything,” I say through gritted teeth.
The smile slips.
“I’m losing everything because of you and Chase,” he says, voice tightening. “Not just the company—you. Us. Everything we could’ve had.”
“You did that to yourself,” I say before I can stop myself. “You lied, and you stole. That’s on you.”
His jaw ticks. He stands slowly and starts toward me. I press myself against the door, but there’s nowhere left to run.
“You're wrong, Violet,” he murmurs. “We had something special...you just... forgot.”
He moves closer, too close, and trails his fingertip down the side of my face.
I jerk away, stomach heaving, the stench of alcohol heavy on his breath.
“You used to look at me like you saw me,” he gushes, stars in his eyes.
“At Velvet Lounge. You chose me to talk to. You smiled. You laughed.”
“I worked there; that was my job. You’re delusional if you think I felt anything.”
His mouth twists in an ugly sneer.
“And New Paltz?” he demands, his fingers snaking around my jaw.
“You flirting with me at the retreat? Huh? Was that part of your job description, too?”
“I didn’t flirt with you,” I say, voice shaking. “I was just being friendly. You imagined all of it.”
Something dark and dangerous flashes in his eyes.
“Enough talking,” he snaps.
“Let’s have a little fun, like old times.”
He moves to the cabinet and pulls out a bottle of tequila and two shot glasses, setting them down on the coffee table with a clink.
“We’re going to play a game,” he says.
I don’t move.
“You want to leave?” he says, voice syrupy-sweet again. “Win the game, it’s simple.”
My throat tightens.
“What game?”
A dark smile curves across his mouth.
“Truth or Drink. But here’s the twist—you lie, you drink. You refuse to answer, you drink. You annoy me...” He waves the bottle at me with an unhinged grin.
“You drink.”
I don’t trust him, but if there’s even a chance to get out of here faster, I’ll take my chances.
I edge toward the couch and sit down stiffly.
The first shot glass slides toward me.
“Let’s begin,” Elliot says. His eyes go up to the ceiling, pondering, his finger tapping a rhythm on his chin.
“Mmmm...let’s see...Ah, I know.” His eyes crawl over my body, his tongue flicking out to lick his chapped lips. “Do you ever fantasize about me when you’re touching yourself, Violet?”
Disgust churns in my stomach.
“No, why would you even say that?” I snap.
He breathes out a soft laugh like it’s funny.
“Liar, now drink.”
“I’m not lying,” I spit.
But he’s already picking up the glass, moving closer, looming over me.
“You know the rules,” he says, almost with tenderness. “I’ve seen the way you look at me.”
He presses the rim of the glass against my lips.
My stomach heaves.
The smell of raw tequila makes my eyes water.
I turn my face away—but he grabs my jaw; not rough, but firm enough that there’s no mistaking the pressure.
“Drink,” he murmurs again.
With no other choice, I choke it down.
The alcohol hits hard, burning all the way down.
Another pour.
“Next question,” he croons, his hand reaching out to finger a lock of my hair.
“If I kissed you right now, would you kiss me back?”
“Never,” I rasp, leaning back as far as I can go.
“Lie,” he singsongs like he’s having the most fun ever.
Another shot shoved toward me.
My vision blurs slightly, my heart slamming against my ribs.
Question after question.
“Did you dress up for me at the Lounge?”
“Did you ever think about what we could’ve been?”
“Do you want to fuck me?”
Every answer I give—denying, refusing, desperate—he calls a lie.
Every denial earns another shot.
I start refusing to drink, but he just lifts the glass and holds it to my mouth again.
“You know the rules,” he says each time, a little more frayed around the edges.
“You wanna leave, Violet? Gotta play fair.”
I’m not sure how long we play.
Long enough for the battered clock on the wall to blink from 7:10... to 7:30... to almost 8.
Long enough for my head to buzz like a broken radio, the floor seeming to lurch under my feet every time I shift.
Long enough that fear sours in my stomach, mixing with the liquor.
Another question. Another accusation. Another forced shot.
At some point, he moves closer, close enough that I feel his breath on my face.
He strokes a fingertip down my cheek again.
“You always had a soft spot for me,” he whispers.
“No,” I slur, “you made it all up.”
His expression shatters—rage bleeding through the cracks.
“Don’t lie to me,” he snarls.
When I try to push off the couch, he grabs my arm and hauls me to my feet.
I stumble, my balance completely shot.
“Let’s go somewhere more private,” he mutters, pulling me toward the hallway.
The walls sway. My stomach churns.
The bedroom looms ahead like a dark abyss.
I can barely keep my eyes open. My legs buckle, useless beneath me.
Everything inside me screams to fight, to run, but my body won’t listen anymore.
My eyes water, a tear sliding down my cheek. I mumble, “Chase,” over and over as if he’ll be able to hear me. The more I say it, the more it sends him into a blind fury. “I’m sorry. Please let me go,” slips out like a prayer before the room spins and the nausea swirls.
The last thing I feel is his hand tightening around my wrist, dragging me forward, dragging me towards hell.