1. Charlotte

1

CHARLOTTE

Three weeks earlier

T he driver drops me a block from Vincent Marano’s brownstone. The humid New York City night clings to me, the heat amplified by the maze of concrete and glass. Even in the dark, the street buzzes with life—muffled laughter from a nearby stoop, the rumble of a passing subway beneath my feet.

I walk the last stretch in heels that were not made for uneven pavement, the echo of my steps blending with the ambient city noise. Risky? Sure. But time isn’t on my side. I promised Sophie I wouldn’t take long, and she made me swear— swear —to watch Legally Blonde with her afterward. As if that were the worst thing I’d do tonight.

Vincent’s brownstone looms ahead, nestled among its tidy, multi-million-dollar neighbors. The warm glow of sconces flanking the front door contrasts with the harsh, distant glare of streetlights. The place is deceptively understated, a quiet facade hiding the man inside. There’s no gate or hedge, but the cameras perched above the stoop and angled discreetly at the door don’t miss a thing.

I smile at one, tilting my head like I’m posing. Men like Vincent? They like to watch.

The stoop is clean and polished, and as I reach the top step, the door opens. He’s waiting.

Vincent leans casually in the doorway, his shirt open just enough to suggest casual wealth. His dark hair is slicked back, his jawline sharp and deliberate. The kind of man who pretends to live for pleasure but is a slave to control.

“You’re early,” he says, his eyes sweeping over me in one lazy, proprietary pass.

I brush past him, the scent of leather and expensive cologne wafting out as I step inside. “You’re observant.”

The entryway is narrow but elegant, the kind of luxury designed to be subtle. The floors gleam under the soft glow of recessed lighting. To the left, a sitting room filled with midcentury furniture; to the right, a sleek staircase leading upward. Vincent closes the door, the sound of the latch a quiet exclamation point to the tension that hangs in the air.

“Thirsty?” he asks, his gaze lingering too long.

I turn, just enough for the fabric of my dress to pull tighter. “Depends.”

He smiles, slow and deliberate. “On what?”

I let the moment stretch, then shrug. “On whether you have anything worth drinking.”

He chuckles low in his throat, moving past me to the open-concept kitchen. The click of a bottle cap and the clink of ice against glass punctuate the silence. He hands me a drink—gin, neat—and watches me as I swirl the liquid, letting the light catch the surface.

I don’t sip. Instead, I set the glass down and step closer. The air between us thickens, his chest almost brushing mine .

My eyes hold his. “Not bad.”

Vincent’s hand finds my hip, his touch firm, testing. I let him think he’s in control, leaning into his space just enough to encourage the illusion. His breath is warm against my ear, his voice low and rough.

“You like the game, don’t you?”

I arch a brow, my lips curving. “What game?”

His grin widens as his fingers slide lower, testing boundaries. I let him, my heartbeat steady, my hand trailing up his chest. His breath catches when I tilt my head, exposing the line of my neck, but I stay still.

He thinks he’s won.

My lips brush his ear. “Maybe I’ve made a mistake coming here.”

He pulls back, confusion flickering in his eyes, and that’s when I strike. The knife slides from beneath my hem, the blade a cold, sharp extension of my intent.

I press it to his throat before he can react, the tip biting into his skin just enough to draw blood.

His startled laugh bubbles out, though it’s shaky. “So, this is what you’re into?”

I smile, tilting the blade just slightly, letting him feel its weight. “You really have no idea.”

What follows is fast and brutal. He lunges, his arrogance flaring as he grabs my wrist, twisting hard. The knife clatters to the floor, but I’m ready. My elbow connects with his nose, the crunch satisfying as blood splatters across his pristine floor.

He stumbles, grabbing at me, but I’m faster. The knife is back in my hand, and this time, it finds his side. He gasps, his strength ebbing as I press him against the wall, my breath steady, while his turns shallow.

“ Please —” he starts, but I twist the blade, cutting off whatever he thought he’d say.

He slumps to his knees, his hands clutching at the wound. I sit and wait as the light in his eyes fades, and then I crouch beside him and wipe the blade on his expensive shirt.

“Messy,” I say, tilting my head as I study him. “But effective.”

The brownstone is quiet now, save for the soft hum of the fridge. Blood pools on the hardwood, soaking into the edge of a rug I’m sure cost more than most people make in a year.

I move to the kitchen, grab the gin he poured, and down it in one go.

On the way out, I pause to check the security system in the hall closet. The monitors show nothing out of the ordinary. A few wipes with a rag and my fingerprints are gone.

The humid night greets me as I slip out the door, my heels clicking against the stone steps.

I’d love to stay and have another drink, to savor the aftermath, but Sophie’s waiting. And a promise is a promise.