Chapter 14
Katherine
Sleep eluded Katherine, leaving her adrift in a dark sea of half-consciousness. Each time she neared the surface of slumber, memories of the previous night pulled her down like an anchor around her throat, crushing the air from her lungs with glacial pressure.
A pervasive wrongness infested Katherine's apartment.
What once sheltered now threatened—her sanctuary transformed into foreign territory where every sound arrived as a warning.
Floorboards released mournful sighs beneath the weight of steps that shouldn't exist. Outside, vehicles no longer passed but stalked the midnight streets with predatory patience.
The refrigerator's mechanical pulse had twisted into something sinister—a hushed, knowing murmur that wound through the shadows and curled against her ear with terrible familiarity, as though it had learned all her secrets and was preparing to speak them aloud.
She told herself she was overreacting. Crawford hadn’t touched her. Hadn’t even raised his voice. He didn’t have to.
And he won.
She shifted beneath the covers, staring at the dark ceiling, hating the way her chest tightened with every inhale.
Katherine's mind scoffed at her body’s betrayal. “Get over it.” Her muscles didn't listen. Her hands still shook when she pushed them through her hair.
But her body didn't believe. Muscles still held the tension of the night and she was still awake when her alarm rang.
By the time she gets to work, the rhythm is off. The world moves two beats ahead of her, and she can’t catch up.
One second, she’s staring at a case file. The next, she’s back in her apartment—Crawford’s voice curling around her like mustard gas, corrosive and inescapable, something she can’t shake.
She tries to focus. She really does. But fear doesn't listen to logic. Her fingers tighten around her pen when she reads the same email three times. Her coffee goes cold before she even realizes. Kath forces herself to answer calls, to take notes, to pretend like everything is fine. But it's not.
Lisa knows. Of course she does. When Kath calls her during lunch, her fingers tremble against the phone, each word balanced on a knife's edge of composure. The facade crumbles with every syllable.
"You okay?" Lisa asks, her voice gentle as a probe searching for a wound.
Kath's breath catches. The truth sits like a stone in her throat, demanding release. But then—she forces it down, swallows it whole. The confession dies unspoken.
"Yeah. Just tired." The lie slides from her lips, wrapped in artificial lightness.
Lisa doesn't press further, but the silence between them yawns open, pregnant with unasked questions. And she knows—Lisa sees through the paper-thin deception. Hell, even Kath can't sustain the fiction she's crafting for herself. By the time evening crawls in.
Katherine stepped into Crimson Bloom late, her movements dragging like she was wading through something unseen.
She told herself it was just exhaustion. A lie she almost believed.
The second she entered, the familiar neon glow settled over her skin—warm, inviting. Safe. Or at least, it should have been. But tonight, everything felt different. The bass was too deep, the air too thick. And Ian—
Ian was watching her. Not lazy. Not amused. Just sharp.
And then—
"Rough day, Blondie?" His voice was calm.
Kath smirked, lazy and unbothered.
"More like a rough week," she tossed back, aiming for careless.
Her voice was too even, betraying none of the tension coiling inside her. But her body wasn't as convincing.
Ian saw. He always did.
He didn’t call her on it. Didn’t press. Just watched— still, calculating. The kind of silence that meant he’d notice things.
And then—
"You don't have to work tonight," Ian said, his tone measured but casual.
Katherine froze. Because Ian offering her an out? That wasn't normal. He didn't give easy exits or offer nights off without a reason.
Her fingers curled around the strap of her bag instinctively. This should have been relief. It wasn’t. Because if Ian noticed, if he thought she needed an out—then maybe she wasn’t hiding as well as she thought.
That realization made her stomach twist uncomfortably.
She exhaled slowly, shaking her head as if to physically dismiss the unease creeping up her spine.
"I'm fine," she stated, keeping her tone light and even.
The moment Ian nodded, something shifted inside her.
A flicker of unease, like a warning light blinking in the back of her mind. His casual acceptance should have been a relief—but instead, it felt loaded. Like a door had closed behind her.
She should’ve taken the out when she still could.
One strap still hung loose off her shoulder as she leaned toward the mirror, smoothing powder beneath one eye.
The low thrum of bass from the club floor pulsed through the walls—distant, muffled, irrelevant. Movements stayed precise: lashes, gloss, perfume. Not thinking. Just preparing.
She opened the drawer beneath the counter, fingers brushing through the clutter of lipsticks and broken compacts.
Half muscle memory, half escape.
Her hand stilled on a familiar tube—sleek black with the faded lettering almost worn off.
A breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t used this one in ages. It was her color once—something soft, almost mauve, with just enough defiance in its undertone.
She twisted the cap, stared at the worn bullet inside. “God, I used to live in this shade,” she muttered, half to herself. A pause. “Of course they don’t make it anymore.”
The thought lingered longer than it should have—ridiculously nostalgic for a product she hadn’t touched in years. But it felt like something solid. Something that used to mean confidence instead of armor.
She turned back to the mirror and set the lipstick down without using it.
Five minutes left to disappear into the part. To become Blondie again.
Then it hit—a shift in the air pressure. Subtle, but unmistakable.
Stilettos struck the hallway floor in clean, clipped rhythm—cutting through the ambient hum like a blade.
Trouble approaching. The air grew heavy with fragrance, overly sweet and suffocating against Katherine's senses.
Aria's arrival always announced itself this way—brash, calculated, commanding the room to bend toward her.
And then—that unmistakable voice sliced through everything else.
"Got a favor to ask, Blondie," Aria said, her tone sickly sweet and insincere.
Kath knew she wouldn’t like where this was going. But she still took her time—finishing the slow sweep of mascara, pretending Aria wasn’t there. Letting silence speak for her.
As if she had a choice in entertaining whatever game she was about to play.
“Not interested,” she said, flat and final.
But Aria never took hints well.
"Oh, come on, don't be like that." purred. "You know how good I am at returning favors."
The implication in her voice was clear. Katherine capped her mascara with slow precision, refusing to meet Aria’s gaze in the mirror, even as her chin locked tight with restraint.
"I don't owe you anything." she stated flatly.
A beat of silence stretched between them, the air growing thick with tension. Kath could practically feel Aria's eyes boring into the back of her head, assessing, calculating her next move.
"Maybe not," conceded finally. "But you might want to hear me out anyway. Just for one night and he is a good money."
"Why me?"
The question left Kath's lips like a blade—sharp, deliberate.
Something in Aria’s expression flickered. Like she’d been waiting for it.
“He’s had everyone but you,” she purred, tone dipped in mockery, the words designed to cut.
Kath didn’t buy it for a second.
This wasn’t about client preference. This was a setup—and they both knew it. But if she refused now, Aria would smell blood in the water.
Aria leaned in, eyes gleaming.
Kath exhaled slowly, then curved her lips into a smirk.
"Fine," she said, casual, controlled—even as something sharp coiled in her gut.
Aria’s smile wasn’t victory.
It was satisfaction.
And that was worse.
Kath knew she’d just stepped right where Aria wanted her.
And the trap snapped shut faster than she expected.
The heavy door sealed with a decisive click, trapping Katherine in a room where shadows loomed and silence pressed hard against her eardrums. The dim light skimmed the walls, revealing just enough to remind her there was no way out.
The space was designed for intimacy—but now it suffocated. The air clung to her skin, thick with tension left unsaid.
The client is already seated, waiting with a stillness that feels dangerous.
And the moment she sees him, her body freezes, every muscle drawing tight, bracing for impact.
Run.
It’s not the money. Plenty of men walk through these doors flush with wealth, their pockets heavy with the power it brings.
But this? This is something else entirely.
Not just rich—the kind of wealth that turns people into pawns. Entitled in the worst way: the type that doesn’t ask—it takes. And worse, the aggression—the kind that thrives on fear, that savors the sound of a boundary snapping.
Her throat tightens, breath catching as if snagged on a barbed wire. Because now, she gets it. This was about sending her to a fucking wolf. Aria knew exactly what she was doing. And now? Now she has to survive it.
One glance tells her everything: the way he sprawls, the lazy tension, the practiced hunger in his eyes. Not just drunk. Dangerous. The kind of man who hears "no" and thinks it's an invitation to push harder.
A chill runs down her spine as she realizes the gravity of the situation she's found herself in. She's been thrust into the lion's den, with no one to hear her scream if things go wrong.
Dread slithers up her spine as his gaze drags over her.
His voice is slurred, but the underlying menace is clear.
"Come here, sweetheart," he says, patting his lap. "Sit on my lap. I promise, I tip well."
Her stomach tightens, but she refuses to let her fear show.