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Chapter One

Niles

The pleated skirt was black, a scrap of fabric that might generously be called a napkin with ambitions. I’d found it at a thrift store three months ago, buried between a sequined atrocity and something that had definitely belonged to a bridesmaid. It cost six dollars. Six. My father’s tailor would’ve needed a fainting couch if he’d seen it.

Holding it against my waist, I studied my reflection in the full-length mirror propped against my bedroom wall. The morning light caught the green of my eyes, made them look brighter than I felt. My brown hair was still damp from the shower, sticking up in directions I hadn’t decided on yet.

“Bold,” I said, testing the word. “Very bold.”

I dropped the skirt onto the bed and reached for the suit bag draped over my desk chair.

The zipper sounded loud in my small bedroom as the plastic teeth parted. Dark fabric appeared inch by inch, expensive enough to make me tired on sight. The suit inside was charcoal. Clean lines. Soft sheen. The kind of thing my father sent instead of actual conversation.

For a second, I just stood there and looked at it.

Then I let out a laugh that held zero joy. “Should’ve just sent me the money instead.”

The jacket came first. It was heavy in my hands and perfectly made. Nothing but the finest from him. Then the trousers, hanging straight and severe, like they were judging me.

Tucked into the inner pocket was a card on thick cream paper.

Wear this for the dinner next month.

No hello or hope you’re well. No attempt at warmth. Just a command wrapped in tailoring.

I flicked the card onto the bed hard enough for it to bounce. My apartment was small, and everything felt closer when he inserted himself into it. Rent was the only thing he still paid without complaint. That came with strings too. They just arrived quieter than the old ones had.

Money used to show up in my account until he got tired of my rebellion.

“That phase,” as he called it.

As if I’d woken up one morning and randomly decided I liked mesh tops, crop jackets, painted nails, and making him grind his molars at brunch. As if I hadn’t spent years suffocating in collars, polished shoes, and the kind of silence men like him mistook for respect.

The first time he sent me a nice button-down, I wore it open over a glitter tank and leather shorts. The second time, he sent loafers. I sold them and bought boots with silver buckles.

Then came the argument.

Then came the cutoff.

I was still broke more often than not. That part never got glamorous. Outrageous clothes looked expensive until you knew how many came from thrift stores and late-night clearance racks. Still, I preferred broke to obedient.

Lifting the skirt again, I held it beside the suit pants and smiled despite myself. One of these made me feel like prey. The other made me feel like me.

The choice wasn’t difficult.

By the time I finished dressing, the suit had been shoved back into its bag and exiled to the corner. I went with the black skirt, a fitted top, chunky boots, and oversized sunglasses because if I was going to be anxious, I preferred to do it fashionably. My hair took five minutes. My eyeliner took ten because my hand slipped once and I had to fix it.

At the mirror, I looked myself over and adjusted the waistband.

“Hideous,” I told my reflection, then spun just to watch the pleated skirt twirl, loving the feel of the fabric against my skin. “He’d hate it.”

That made me grin.

Keys in hand, I headed outside to my car. The thing looked decent from a distance, which was deeply misleading. Up close, there were scratches on one side, and a weird vibration had started the other day. When I turned the key, the engine answered with a noise that sounded expensive.

I froze with both hands on the wheel.

Then it did it again. A rough, ugly rattle from somewhere under the hood.