“I was there. I don’t need the replay.”
“Is she okay?” he asked. It wasn't to get a rise out of me; it was genuine concern.
“No,” I said. “She’s not.”
“Can I ask you something?”
I knew he was going to ask whether I agreed or not. “You’ll ask anyway,” I muttered.
“If you say this girl killed your parents—or is the reason they're dead—but you’re so clearly obsessed with her… shouldn’t you, you know…” He trailed off for so long I finally snapped at him.
“What?”
“Pick a lane? You can’t have her and hate her at the same time. She doesn’t seem like the type to be into that.”
I shot him a scathing look. He just took his drink, shrugged, and patted me on the back before wandering off to a group of women in another section of the bar.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled piece of paper. I’d swiped it from the room where Ness had been before we’d left. It was a cocktail napkin. On it, in black ink, was a sketch of a gown. It was architectural yet fluid—a masterpiece drawn in the time it took for the salad course to be served.
She thought I didn't notice. I noticed everything.
I knew she reached for her hair when she was lying. I knew she hated the color yellow because it reminded her of a dress she’d been forced to wear at nineteen. And I knew that when I’d touched her on that dance floor, her heart had been hammering a rhythm that matched mine.
Thirty days.
I’d bought a month of her time for fifteen thousand dollars. To the room, it looked like a playboy’s whim. To Morgan, it looked like a peace offering. But as I stared at the endless rows of liquor bottles, I knew the truth. It was a siege.
Vanessa Miranda was the only person who had ever looked at me and seen the man behind the James empire—and she’d had the audacity to dislike him, even after what she’d done. I was going to spend the next thirty days making sure she couldn't breathe without thinking of me. I’d give her the resources, the studio, and the gowns she deserved. I’d give her everything, show her what she was missing, and then, when the thirty days were over, she’d beg to stay. She’d beg to come back to me.
My phone buzzed on the bar top. A text from Morgan.
Morgan: She’s home. She’s safe. But Elliott? If you hurt her again during this 'wish' month, I will help her bury the body. No joke.
I set the phone down without replying. I wasn't going to hurt her. I was going to win.
I took a swallow of the scotch, the burn familiar and grounding. I looked back at the napkin sketch.
"Thirty days, Ness," I whispered to nobody at all. "Let's see who breaks first."
ten
VANESSA
It was impossible to sleep.The confrontation had been ugly, and I spent the night tossing and turning, replaying it over and over—thinking about all the things I could’ve said. I didn’t regret how I’d handled it; I just wished I’d yelled more. Raged more. I hadn’t shown the full depth of my anger, and that was my only regret.
Not that it made me feel better. Betrayal never does. Time does the dirty work—dulling the edges, making you forget. Firsttheir voice fades, then the bad times, then even the good ones. The last thing to go is their scent, though sometimes you’ll pass a stranger wearing the same cologne and the memories will hit—but they’ll sting less.
Honestly, I was surprised it hurt as much as it did. I didn't know if I had ever truly loved anyone, but with Javi, I’d thought maybe I could. No love lost, though. Just six months of my life I’d never get back.
Sometime in the night, my bedroom door creaked open. A small figure climbed into bed—Chloe, my eight-year-old niece. She was my sister’s only daughter, half the size and twice the sass of anyone else in the house. She didn’t say a word, just curled into my side like she’d been doing since the day she was born. Her breathing steadied into soft snores, and having her there finally brought me enough peace to fall asleep, too.
* * *
“VANESSSSAAAA!”
The scream nearly knocked me out of bed. For a second, I didn’t know where or who I was. That shriek was my mom’s special, reserved for dragging us out of deep sleep or summoning us from across the house. I groaned into my arm. I was twenty-seven, but I was still terrified of the woman who raised me. We all were. How a sound that loud came from someone so tiny, I’d never know.
I glanced at Chloe, still curled up beside me, and tried not to wake her. Ever since my family had staged an “intervention” over my week-long bed-rot, someone had crawled into my bed every night. Sometimes it was my sister, but usually, it was one of the littles.
