Peter leaned against the mall's second-floor railing, one arm lazily draped as if he had all the time in the damn world. Below, people moved like ants—moms dragging screaming toddlers, dudes with shopping bags they clearly didn't want to be carrying, and couples so clingy they might as well fuse at the hip.
His phone buzzed. Not the usual one—the other one.
The phone that didn't exist.
The phone that got him in trouble.
ISABELLA RODRIGUEZ:My husband's in the garage. I've locked the door. I need your voice. Call me.
Peter's brow arched. A smirk crept across his lips, the kind that could burn cities.He thumbed open the message, eyes gleaming.
Another ping.ISABELLA RODRIGUEZ:FaceTime. I want to see you. I want you to tell me what you'd do to me if you were here. No filters. Just you and that voice that ruins me.
He glanced around. Families. Security. Mall jazz piping through overpriced speakers.Cute.
