That’s why I hated the idea of the debutante ball.
College was supposed to be my escape.
My chance to step outside the suffocating polish of my life.
And yet—Whitney wrote letters. Pulled strings. Forced doors open that were never meant for someone like me.
The fact that she had to fight for my place there tells me everything I need to know.
I said no. Over and over again.
But Whitney didn’t give up. Because it wasn’t really about the ball. It was about not being alone. And I could never say no to her for long.
My chest tightens.
Because in the end—we went.
And that night became something else entirely.
Something darker.
Something that feels less like a fairytale and more like the beginning of a nightmare.
I’ve spent years trying not to think about it.
Trying not to replay the what-ifs.
But some days, it’s impossible.
Because the truth is—if I’d known then what I know now…
I never would have gone.
I would have stayed as far away from The Pierre as I could.
A hundred miles wouldn’t have been enough.
Chapter Seven
“Hey, babe!” I call out the back door, scanning the patio and pool for Bennett.
He said he was going for his morning swim just a few minutes ago. He’s done laps every morning since the day we moved in—a decade of ritual, of discipline.
Of control.
Watching his lean body cut through the water, droplets catching the light on his bronze skin, is practically pornography. Most mornings, I sit poolside with my orange juice, pretending I’m not watching him like it’s my favorite show.
I take a slow sip now, stepping toward the pool—and then I hear it.
Voices.
Low. Male.
My chest tightens instantly.
There’s only one person he would be talking to at this hour.
And it’s not the landscaper.
