“Two more years," he spits, disgust evident in every syllable. “Two years of playing the supportive boyfriend while you climbed the corporate ladder. Listening to you whine about your day. Pretending to care about your pathetic little dreams. And then you let yourself go. Gained all that weight. Started taking up space. God, it was repulsive." He runs a hand through his hair in the gesture I once found endearing. Now it just looks rehearsed. "Do you know what it's like? Having to touch someone you're revolted by? Pretending you still find them attractive?”

He crouches again, getting closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne—the one I bought him last Christmas, thinking it would make him happy, make him love me more. The scent now makes me wretch.

“And then finally you got the manager position,” he sneers. "Access to the inventory system, security codes, order forms. A perfect little puppet who could start ordering extra merchandise—thousands, maybe millions of dollars worth—without raising any red flags."

I think about every night I cried myself to sleep because I thought I wasn't good enough for him, every time I apologized for things that weren't my fault, every pound I tried to lose because he made me feel too big, too much, too everything.

"But then you had to go and develop a fucking spine." His lips curl into a sneer, his hand wrapping around my throat—not tight enough to cut off air, just enough to remind me that he could. "You just had to play hero. And now? All that work? For nothing."

He leans in, so close I can feel his breath against my ear, lowering his voice like we're sharing a secret. "But not for nothing."

His free hand slides into his jacket with practiced ease, and cold steel presses against my cheek. The shock of it sends ice through my veins, freezing me in place more effectively than any restraint.

I stiffen as he drags the barrel of the gun down the curve of my face with almost tender precision, pausing at my jaw, tilting my chin up with it. The metal is cool and unyielding, a deadly promise against my skin.

"You're going to fix this, Izzy." His voice is almost gentle, the way it used to be when he'd apologize after making me cry, when he'd promise things would be different, better. They never were.

"You're going to give me every piece of information I ask for. You're going to be a good girl and open every door I tell you to open. And if I decide to let you live after that, you're going to keep your pretty little mouth shut."

Fury burns through my veins like wildfire, consuming any fear that might have been there. I see him now—really see him, stripped of the illusions I built around him. I see the coldness in his eyes, the emptiness behind his perfect smile, and the complete lack of humanity beneath his polished exterior.

He grins, teeth white and perfect like everything else about him—a façade meticulously maintained to hide the monster underneath. "Because if you breathe a word of this to anyone?" His grip tightens around my throat, just enough to make breathing difficult, to remind me of my vulnerability. "I will kill your family."

I don't think.

I don't hesitate.

I don't weigh the consequences or calculate the risks or imagine the retaliation.

I spit in his fucking face.

The glob of saliva lands on his perfectly sculpted cheekbone and slides slowly down toward his lips—a small, petty victory that feels monumental in this moment.

"I'll never help you, you piece of shit," I hiss, each word dripping with the venom I've been swallowing for years.

His entire body goes still.

He’s quiet and I wonder if he wasn't expecting resistance, that in all his careful planning he never accounted for me finding my voice, my anger, my self-worth.

He growls, a sound more animal than human, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand as if my touch has contaminated him. His fingers tighten around the gun until his knuckles go white.

"Oh, I think you will."

The gun presses against my temple, hard enough to leave an impression.

But even with death against my skin, something inside me has finally broken free—and I'm not going back to being the woman who thought she deserved nothing better than Evan.

AMANDA HAS A BODY COUNT. PROBABLY.

CAL

I take a hard turn, tires screeching as I cut through the last intersection before the warehouse. My knuckles are white on the wheel, my heart hammering against my ribs, my mind laser-focused on one thing—getting to Izzy.

Amanda grips the handle of the door, looking entirely too composed for what’s about to go down.

“How do you know where she is?” she asks, tone laced with suspicion.

I don’t hesitate. I don’t even try to lie.

“I hacked her phone a while ago,” I say, voice flat. “I’ve known where she is at all times since I met her.”

Amanda hums. “Huh.”

That’s it.

Just huh.

I glance at her. “That’s all you have to say?”

She shrugs, casual as hell. “I mean, yeah, it’s a little insane and wildly possessive, but let’s be real—I’ve been wondering if you were some kind of stalker since day one. You’re just proving me right. I love being right.”

I roll my eyes.

Under her breath, she mutters, “It’s also kinda hot.”

I ignore that.

We pull up to the warehouse, an old industrial building at the far edge of the docks. The area is deserted; it’s the perfect kind of place for criminals to conduct business without interruptions.

Amanda reaches for the door handle.

I slap a hand on her arm. “Wait.”

She freezes. “What?”

“We can’t just rush in. We don’t know where she is. Running in blind is a great way to get ourselves killed.”

Amanda’s clearly itching to move, but she nods.

I take a breath, reach for my phone, and open the one function I told myself I wouldn’t ever use.

The live audio and video feed from Izzy’s phone.

Amanda’s eyes widen as she watches me tap into the stream. “Oh, you didn’t just hack her phone.” She whistles. “You like, hacked her phone.”

I don’t respond.

I press play.

At first, it’s nothing but muffled sounds. The rustling of fabric. Distant voices.

But one voice cuts through.

Male.

Familiar.

I frown, turning up the volume.

Amanda’s face twists into a sneer.

“That’s Evan,” she hisses.

I whip my head toward her. “You sure?”

She scoffs. “I’ve heard that asshole talk enough times to know, yes, that is definitely him.”

Fucking hell.

I listen harder, but I still can’t pinpoint her exact location. Some kind of office, maybe? Somewhere enclosed.

It’s enough to guide our search.

I slide my gun from my holster, checking the magazine. Amanda does the same.

I glance at her. “You ever cleared a building before?”

Amanda shoots me a seriously? look while chambering a round. “Yes.”

I raise a brow. “You know, you’re full of surprises.”

“Trust me, Callahan,” she says, voice smug. “I’ve got layers.”

I nod once. “I take point. You cover me. We clear as we go. Shoot for the legs. Easier to handle clean up legally and that way they can't follow.”

She nods.

I look back at the warehouse.

Time to get my girl.

“Let’s go.”

***

The warehouse is eerily empty.

No lookouts. No guards. Just rows of crates, shelves stacked high with stolen goods—luxury handbags, high-end electronics, jewelry. They’ve been running this operation for a while.

Amanda moves ahead of me, covering the left side as I take the right.

She’s quiet. Efficient. Smooth.