39. Sophie

39

SOPHIE

T here’s something Mom isn’t telling me. A lot of somethings, I’m sure. But this s omething is important.

The party isn’t scheduled for a few hours, but I’ve learned the hard way that arriving late is a mistake. You don’t show up fashionably late when you’re about to kill someone. You show up early, but not too early, you observe, you blend in. And you wait for the right moment.

We’re in the back of a black car, the driver wordlessly navigating the winding streets of the Hamptons, when I start going through the details in my mind. The yacht party. The elite guests. The men who think they can do whatever they want, especially when it comes to women.

They won’t talk about it publicly, but the rumors are there. Sexual assault cases. Quiet settlements. But not even that, usually. Usually, no one talks. These people, they make sure of that. They have tactics that would make the old school mafia blush.

But not me. Not anymore. I’ve seen enough. A handful of rich men who prey on those around them—young people who get swept into their world, only to be tossed aside when they’re no longer useful.

I’ve attended enough parties and done my research. Months spent gathering intel have shown me how people are called in to clean up their messes, how victims are erased while the men remain protected. It’s the same dance, time and again. But this time, Mom and I have been tasked with sending a clear message. If no one else will stop these men, we will. Those with the wherewithal and deep pockets are ensuring it. The people who think they’re above it all, who believe they can control, manipulate, and hurt with impunity—someone wants them reminded that their actions have consequences.

I adjust the silver bracelet on my wrist, feeling its cool weight against my skin. It's a simple thing, a reminder of Malik and the life I’ve chosen, one that does not— cannot— include him. The life that’s always moving, always on the edge of something. Tonight is no different.

Mom thinks I’m sad. She keeps referencing it, dancing around emotions as though they’re contagious. But I’m not sad. I’m pissed .

I told her that, and she said, “Good, let it fuel you.”

What choice do I have?

The car pulls up to the dock where the yacht is anchored, the enormous vessel lit up like a floating city, the kind of place where multi-million-dollar deals happen and money flows freely like water. I can feel the tension in the air as I step out onto the pier. I don’t even need to look at the other guests to know that some of them are just as dangerous as my target. The world they inhabit is one of silence, where power is wielded without hesitation and consequences rarely follow.

We make our way up the gangway and onto the yacht. It’s almost an absurd display of wealth—gold and marble, art on every wall, every surface gleaming under the soft lighting. I almost laugh at the opulence. I’ve been in more luxurious places, but none of them have felt this hollow, this fake.

The first guests are already arriving, stepping out of sleek black cars, adjusting their designer clothes, greeting each other with the false warmth that people in this world always use to cover their true intentions. They’re all here for one thing: power. To network, to show off, to claim another notch on their belt.

We slip past them, blending in, Mom’s eyes scanning the crowd, looking for one person. He’s not here yet, but he will be. The dossier Mom gave me was clear enough. A high-profile man with a long history of abuses and a long list of people willing to turn a blind eye.

Later, when I spot him, he’s exactly what I expected—cocky, self-assured, surrounded by sycophants who laugh at his every word. It’s disgusting, really. How they enable him, how they feed into his delusion that he’s untouchable.

But I know better.

Tonight, he’s about to learn how wrong he is.

As I move into position, the crowd at the entrance shifts, parting abruptly. And there he is—Malik. His presence slices through the opulent facade like a knife. I freeze, my heart suddenly erratic. Mom’s eyes flash with anger, but there’s something colder behind them. She’s not surprised. She expected this.

I didn’t know it until this second. But now, everything she said to me in the car suddenly clicks into place.

People will always act out of self-interest, driven by their motivations. Your job is to figure out whether those motivations align with your own. And when they don’t, make a quick exit. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. You will waste your one wild and precious life. Wish them every happiness and move on.

Malik smiles, gives a casual wave, and strides straight toward me .

“Malik.” My voice comes out tight. “What are you doing here?”

He smirks. “Seems like a good place to meet people.”