Maybe the entire thing was a red herring.
He reached his floor and walked down the corridor, pulling out his key card. Room 514. He tapped, pushed open the door?—
And stopped.
The room was empty.
The bed, where Jayden had been curled with her phone—empty. The bathroom door open, lights off—empty. The balcony slider closed, curtains still.
“Jayden?”
His voice sounded wrong in the quiet room. Too loud. Too desperate.
He moved fast, checking everywhere—bathroom, closet, behind the curtains. Nothing. She wasn’t here.
Her bag still sat on the office chair. Her shoes by the bed. But the clothes she’d been wearing earlier—soft pants, a sweater—were folded on the bed.
She’d changed. Taken her phone. Taken her room key.
Left voluntarily.
But where? And why?
Dakota grabbed his phone, checked for texts. Nothing from Jayden. No missed calls. No explanation.
He texted her.
Dakota
Where are you?
Sent. Watched the screen. No response. No typing indicator.
The hollow feeling in his chest expanded, cold and sharp.
The open balcony door in the Harts’ room flashed through his mind.
What if it was someone after her?
Or what if she was after someone?
No—no. He’d already ruled that out, right?
Yes. No. He didn’t know. That was the worst part. He didn’t know.
Dakota stood in the middle of the empty room and felt the ground shifting under his feet.
He had to find her.
He had to know the truth.
And he had no idea where to start.
This was, without question, the worst idea Jayden had ever had—and she’d had some spectacularly bad ones in her three years of being a Black Swan.
Four stories up, pressed flat against cold stone, she inched along the narrow ledge with her fingers digging into the ornate molding above her head. The Melbourne night stretched out below—streetlights, distant traffic, the kind of drop that would kill her instantly if she slipped.
She was not going to slip.
