"I've been taking care of myself for a very long time," she says, twirling the gun in her hand like it's an accessory. "I've got a past no one knows about. And if you don't take me willingly, I'll just follow you anyway."

I stare at her.

Of all the people in this goddamn store, Amanda was not who I'd expect to be pulling a weapon out of her fucking purse.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Fine. But Izzy comes first."

Amanda nods. "Obviously."

I shove an extra magazine into her hand. "Don't miss."

She winks. "I never do."

I don't have time to process that.

Instead, I grab my bag, haul ass to the parking garage, and throw everything into Izzy's car—because it's the closest. Amanda jumps into the passenger seat without hesitation.

I don't even glance at her as I start the engine, pull up the GPS coordinates, and floor it.

We're coming, Izzy.

Hold on.

I DON’T CRY OVER MONSTERS ANYMORE

IZZY

I wake up in a haze, my brain struggling to piece together where I am and how I got here. It's like swimming through thick fog, each thought fragmented and slippery. My head pounds with a dull, insistent ache that makes it hard to concentrate—like the worst hangover I've ever had, except I don't remember drinking.

My body feels impossibly heavy, limbs weighted down as if gravity has doubled overnight. Everything is... wrong. Not just unfamiliar, but deeply, fundamentally wrong, like I've stepped into someone else's nightmare. The air filling my lungs is stale and thick with dust. I taste it on my tongue—metallic and foreign.

Beneath me isn't the soft give of a mattress but cold, unyielding metal that leaches warmth from my body. My wrists throb where tight plastic zip ties cut into skin already raw and angry. The sound of my own breathing is too loud, echoing in my ears—shallow, rapid pants that betray the panic I'm trying desperately to suppress.

Where the hell am I?

I try to shift position, to find some relief from the hard floor, but my body protests with a sluggishness that sends fresh alarm coursing through me. My thoughts immediately dart to the worst possibility—did they drug me? I'm disoriented, yes, but not disconnected. I can feel every painful ache and sensation.

Then I hear them—men's voices cutting through the silence.

Not just talking. Arguing.

I strain to make out the words through the cotton-wool stuffing my head, but they're overlapping, voices rising and falling as they fight about something. About me.

"She's a liability⁠—"

"We should just⁠—"

"Are you insane? That was not the deal⁠—"

I swallow hard, my throat so dry it feels like sandpaper, and force my eyes open only to see... nothing. For a terrifying second, I think I'm blind, until reality catches up—there's something covering my head. A bag. Rough fabric rubbing against my face with every breath, smelling of burlap and something else I can't identify.

Panic hits hard, but I push it down.

If I fall apart now, it’s over. I have to listen. Think. Strip this moment for anything I can use. I don’t get to feel things right now—I just have to win.

I shift slightly, testing my surroundings, feeling for anything I might use. The movement, small as it is, catches their attention.

"She's waking up," one of them mutters.

Footsteps approach—slow, deliberate, measured. The sound of expensive shoes on concrete, the unhurried pace of someone who feels completely in control.

"Leave me alone with her."

I freeze.

That voice.

I know that voice better than I want to, better than I should. It's the voice that whispered false promises, that cut me down with casual cruelty disguised as concern, that somehow convinced me I wasn't enough while simultaneously telling me I'd never find better.

The bag is yanked off without warning, and I flinch at the sudden movement, blinking rapidly as my eyes struggle to adjust to the lighting. The space around me slowly takes shape—high ceilings, concrete floors, metal beams disappearing into shadows.

Warehouse.

I'm in a warehouse.

Not abandoned, though. The space is filled with merchandise—designer bags stacked in neat piles, boxes of electronics sealed and labeled, racks of clothing still bearing tags. It looks like the backroom of a high-end department store, except everything is clearly stolen.

And then I see him.

Evan.

He stands a few feet away, his stance casual, almost bored. He's loosened his tie, rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt to reveal forearms I once thought were sexy. His golden hair is slightly mussed, as if he's been running his hands through it in frustration. He's looking at me like I'm something he forgot to throw out—an inconvenience, a task he needs to deal with before moving on to more important things.

And just like that, any confusion, any disorientation I felt vanishes, burned away by the white-hot clarity of rage. My mind focuses on the man in front of me.

Because I should have known.

Of course it's him.

Evan steps closer, his Italian leather loafers—the ones he once bragged cost more than my monthly rent—pad against the concrete. His face is partially shadowed under the flickering warehouse lights, but I can still see the amusement curling at the edges of his mouth.

So fucking smug.

Like he's already won, like this was inevitable, like I should have seen it coming.

Maybe I should have.

I don't move. I don't cower or twist away or beg. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me panic, of confirming what he's always believed—that I'm weak, that I need him, that I'm nothing without him.

The thugs he’s with exit the space and he crouches down in front of me, reaching out to grip my chin between his fingers. His touch is familiar in the worst possible way. His fingers dig into my skin as he tilts my face up to his, forcing eye contact, asserting control just like he always did. Even now, he touches me like I belong to him.

"You really fucked things up for me, Izzy," he murmurs, his voice almost conversational, with an undercurrent of amusement that makes my skin crawl.

I glare at him, refusing to flinch, refusing to look away.

He tsks—that condescending sound he started making after everything changed—and shakes his head like I'm a child who doesn't understand the consequences of her actions. "I was going to dump your ass, you know that? Had it all planned out." He releases my chin with a jerk that nearly snaps my neck, standing back up to his full height and beginning a slow, methodical circle around me.

“But then I lost my job. Six months without work. No calls back. My savings bleeding out," he continues, a bitter edge to his voice. "Then I got offered a ‘consulting’ job.” He makes air quotes, his smile turning cruel. "Turns out what they needed was someone who understood high-end retail supply chains. Someone who could help them identify which merchandise to target, how to move it without getting caught."

He gestures broadly at the warehouse full of stolen goods. "Designer items, electronics, luxury watches—low volume, high value. We divert shipments, falsify inventory records, then sell everything overseas at a massive profit. It's beautiful, really."

His eyes narrow as he looks down at me. "I was ready to start fresh. New job, new girl—one who wouldn't remind me of my failure." He sneers. "Then you got that assistant manager promotion at Monarch, and suddenly you were useful. 'Keep her close,' they said. 'She's our way in.' And I had to pretend I still wanted you.