The moon was full, hanging low in the sky like it knew my heart was unraveling. I didn't make it back to my room. I didn't care about my reputation, the family name, or what the vultures would say.
I just needed to breathe.
So, I ran.
Not far—just far enough. Through the back gate, across the estate wall I'd learned to scale at fifteen, and into the real world, where love wasn't a transaction and people didn't use bloodlines as bargaining chips.
"You're outside?" Faye's voice buzzed through the phone. "Bitch, did the world end and no one told me?"
"I'm coming over," I whispered. "Just… don't ask anything yet. Please."
Click.
No more words. Just her voice softening. "Door's open."
I drove to Faye's place in just under thirty minutes—which, considering how pissed I was, honestly felt like a personal record. Rage-fueled driving hits different when you're a mafia heiress running away from an arranged marriage.
I was mad. Not the petty kind of mad where you throw pillows and yell into the void. This was the quiet, simmering kind. The kind that sat heavy in your chest and made you clench the steering wheel so hard your knuckles turned white.
I knew my father had his reasons. James Rivera was a calculating man—he didn't breathe unless he'd thought it through fifty times over. But knowing that didn't make it hurt any less. Whatever the DeLuca family had over him, it had to be something massive. Monumental. Maybe even damning.
And that son of his? Ugh. I'd met Simon DeLuca once at some high-society event my father dragged me to. He gave me leech energy—clingy, clueless, and couldn't take a damn hint. I said no, and he still hovered like I'd whispered yes in Morse code.
I'd bet five million dollars he was celebrating somewhere right now, probably with champagne and zero dignity.
Well, over my dead, perfectly-manicured body. I was not marrying that creep.
I pulled into Faye's private driveway and—just like that—put all my runaway fantasies on hold.
Faye's dad was a millionaire. As in "owns one of Europe's biggest textile companies" kind of millionaire. T&T Textiles. I grew up hearing the name like it was some kind of fashion god. And her older brother? Yeah, that one. Tall, 28, rich, and alarmingly hot. The kind of guy who looked like he stepped out of a men's cologne commercial.
He flirts with me every time he sees me.
Too bad he's not my type. Honestly, I don't even know what my type is, but I know it's not someone who still thinks the world is soft and safe.
He wouldn't last a day in my world.
Lucky for me, Faye had moved into her own penthouse last year. No brother. No nosy parents. Just her, her Chanel slippers, and an overstocked wine fridge.
She opened the door before I even knocked and wrapped me in a hug like I hadn't just ghosted the entire Rivera mansion.
"Oh darling," she said, voice full of mock-serious concern, "who are we killing tonight?"
I laughed, the sound cracking through my exhaustion. "Myself, maybe."
She rolled her eyes. "Please. If you die, who's going to keep up with my unfiltered drama? Get in here."
I dumped my bag by the couch and told her everything—well, most things. Some family secrets stayed locked in the vault. But she got the gist. The arranged marriage. The rage. The silent betrayal that stung more than any gunshot.
Faye sat on the couch with a spoonful of ice cream halfway to her mouth. "Okay but like… what are you going to do?"
"I don't know," I muttered. "But I swear, Faye, I will set the world on fire before I marry that slimeball."
Her eyes lit up. "Rebellion. I love it. But first—Mean Girls?"
I grinned. "Hell yeah. And I call dibs on Regina George quotes."
"Already pulled the ice cream out of the fridge," she said, practically skipping toward the kitchen. "Double fudge cookie dough. Tonight, calories don't exist."
"And sanity," I called after her. "That left the chat hours ago."
A few minutes later, we were in our pajamas—mine a silk set, hers a ridiculous unicorn onesie—and watching Regina George destroy lives with a smile. It felt good. Safe. Like I could breathe again.
Then I turned to her with a smirk. "Okay, forget me for a second. Spill. How's Luca?"
Boom. Instant tomato face.
Faye's cheeks flushed bright red, and she almost choked on her spoon. "Nothing is going on with Luca."
"Mmmhmm," I said, not buying it for a damn second. "Right. And I'm a nun."
"You are a virgin though—" she teased, grinning.
"Barely," I fired back. "Don't come for me. Virginity is a social construct."
"Oh my god, not this speech again," she groaned, giggling. "Just admit you want someone to destroy you in bed already."
"Hey! I want emotional connection and a good dicking. Is that too much to ask?"
"Apparently, yes," she said, raising her spoon in salute.
We laughed so hard we spilled ice cream on the couch, paused the movie halfway through to dance like maniacs to Beyoncé, and ended the night talking about life, boys, and how unfair the world was to girls like us.
We finally collapsed in bed sometime after 2 a.m., mascara smudged, hearts slightly lighter.
And for the first time in a while—I slept.
Not with one eye open.
Not with a dagger under my pillow.
Just me, Faye, and a moment of stolen peace.
I had no idea it would be the last one I'd ever have.