[SOVEREIGN TOWER - FLOOR 98]

Sierra was carving a trench in the marble.

Heels stabbing the floor like knives—click, drag, click, drag—each step a frantic metronome counting down to something irreversible. The strappy black stilettos she'd spent an hour choosing, the ones that turned her legs into weapons, now felt like shackles, clicking out her panic in sharp, brittle echoes through the cavernous penthouse.

Her phone was welded to her palm, knuckles white, screen burning her eyes.

Phei (Old Phone) - 53 Unanswered Calls

Fifty-three.

Every single one devoured by voicemail before the first ring. Not delayed. Not dropped. Instantly dead. Like the phone had been crushed under a boot or drowned in blood.

Her stomach lurched at the image.

Something was wrong.

Not the quiet kind of wrong. The kind that ended with body bags and hushed settlements and headlines that lasted one day before the Legacies buried them.

Phei never ghosted her. Not once. Even when he was buried in training, or scheming, or tangled up with whatever girl had caught his eye that week (Mistook his Melissa sessions as girls)—he answered. A text. A voice note. A single emoji. Something. Always.

Four hours of total silence?

That was a scream in itself.

Maybe he's with that Valentina, the venomous little voice hissed again. Maybe Maya's riding him right now while you sit here like an idiot.

She crushed it harder this time, ground it beneath her heel.

She knew him now. Knew the shape of his honesty, sharp as broken glass. He collected women with just his presence the way other boys collected trophies, and he never pretended otherwise. He'd looked her in the eye days ago before they even fucked and said, You won't be the only one. If that's a problem, walk now.

She'd stayed. Chosen him anyway.

So, he wouldn't lie about meeting Brett.

Which meant Brett had lied to him.

Sierra stopped dead in the middle of the living room, breath catching like fabric on barbed wire.

Her gaze snapped to the Samsung on the coffee table—Phei's new android phone, the one he'd left behind with a kiss on her temple and a promise: Back in an hour, gorgeous.

It had been vibrating itself toward the edge of the table for the last ninety minutes.

She'd resisted as long as she could. Privacy. Boundaries. Trust.

Then the same unknown number had called for the twentieth time and fear had won.

She snatched it up, thumb trembling as she punched in the passcode he'd given her without hesitation—trust that still made her heart stutter—and opened the call log.

Brett Castellano - 29 Missed Calls

Her blood flash-froze in her veins.

Twenty-nine calls from the person Phei was supposedly meeting?

She scrolled higher, breath shallow.

Outgoing call to Brett Castellano - 4:17 PM -

Duration: 2:12

Then the texts.

Brett: yo charity case got something for u

Brett: Like promised, meet me at the construction site behind the academy

Brett: come alone

Brett: don't tell ur bitch gf lol

Phei: What do you want?

Brett: just come, we need to join hands, alright? I take it you do not know about him. point is, those fuckers are going to throw all the blame at me to save their thick skins, and I need your help

Brett: trust me you'll want this. I have info about him you could use

That was it.

A lure. Whoever this him had made Phei sacrifice a few free hours before their date.

And Phei had bitten.

Sierra's hands shook so hard the phone nearly slipped.

They jumped him?

Or worse? Maybe she was overreacting.

Her vision tunneled.

Call the police? In Paradise? The Castellanos and their allies owned half the force. The other half was terrified of them. A call would only give them time to finish whatever they'd started and hose down the evidence. And what if she was wrong and caused an unnecessary fuss?

She needed someone she could think was interested in helping her. Him.

Maya.

The name surged up like a lifeline.

Phei had never hidden her. Sierrra always laughed about her with Maddie as the "crazy silver-haired stalker" the only ally she could think of now.

Sierra had seen the texts—playful, sharp, fond in a way that used to twist her gut with jealousy until she realized Maya wasn't competition. She was chaos with a crush, and right now chaos was exactly what she needed.

Sierra opened Instagram with shaking fingers, typed @maya.scarlett_, found her instantly.

Private account. Didn't matter.

She slammed into DMs.

Sierra: This is Sierra Montgomery.

Phei's in trouble.

He went to meet Brett at the construction site hours ago and he's not answering.

Brett's blowing up his other phone.

I think it's definitely a trap. Please help?

Sent.

Seen. Instantly.

Typing…

Maya: holy shit

Maya: i knew those fuckers were planning something

Maya: im on my way. don't call the police. calling someone who can actually help. where are you????

Maya: address??

Sierra: Sovereign Tower. Downtown Paradise

Maya: obviously. the tower is downtown on my way. we're getting him back.

Sierra dropped onto the couch, phone clutched to her chest like a heart she was trying to keep beating.

Somewhere out in the dark, Phei was bleeding.

Maybe broken.

Maybe worse.

And all she could do was sit in this gilded cage ninety-eight floors above the city and pray the monsters hunting him hadn't already torn him apart.

****

They were closing the net.

Phei could hear them everywhere now—boots grinding gravel into dust, the rhythmic thunk-thunk-thunk of nailed bats slapping against palms or dragging along chain-link fences like a predator's claws. Low, excited laughs. The kind men make when the prey is cornered and the kill is certain.

He was out of shadows.

Out of breath.

Out of time.

Through skeletal gaps in the scaffolding, the Derek estate glowed like a predator's den—windows lit gold, sleek black supercars lined up in the drive like trophies. He could almost feel their eyes on the feeds, sipping drinks, waiting for the dogs to drag the bleeding rabbit home.

Not without a fight, you bastards.

Phei pressed his back to a cracked concrete pillar, ribs screaming with every shallow inhale. Blood dripped from his chin in steady plops, pooling dark on the dirt. His bare foot was shredded—glass and rust embedded deep, each shift sending fresh fire up his leg.

Healing Touch pulsed weakly under his skin, Level 1 and pathetic against this much damage. It had sealed the worst of the gashes, dulled the swelling in his cheek enough that he could still see, but it couldn't mend cracked ribs or the concussion already fuzzing the edges of his vision. It bought minutes, not miracles.

He needed an opening.

He needed a weapon.

He needed—

His torn foot snagged on a loop of rusted rebar jutting from broken concrete.

The world tilted.

He pitched forward, arms windmilling uselessly, palms scraping raw as they failed to find purchase. His forehead smashed into the slab with a wet, sickening crack—bone on stone, no mercy.

Light detonated behind his eyes in white-hot shards.

Sound warped, stretched, slowed.

Boots thundering. Shouts stretching into animal howls.

"GOT HIM!"

"HE'S DOWN—MOVE!"

"DON'T LET THE FUCKER CRAWL!"

Hands seized him—gloved, brutal—fingers like iron digging into his arms, his hair, the raw meat of his sides. Someone drove a knee between his shoulder blades, grinding him face-first into the grit and blood already smeared there. A bat pressed across the back of his neck, pinning him like a butterfly.

He tried to thrash. Managed one weak twist before a fist hammered into his kidney, exploding agony through his gut. Air whooshed out in a bloody spray.

Another blow—boot to the ribs. Something inside him snapped with a wet pop.

Vision tunneled to a pinprick.

The last clear sensation was the cold bite of zip-ties slicing into his wrists, yanked viciously tight until he felt circulation die.

Then the darkness rushed in, thick and absolute.

One final, fading thought clawed its way through the pain:

Sierra.

I'm sorry.

I should've come home.

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