I pictured Anthony tomorrow at his father’s firm, surrounded by his finance bros in their identical Patagonia vests. “Yeah, I nailed Wallace’s daughter right in the old man’s study. On his desk. While he was eating dessert downstairs.”

The image should have made me want to crawl under the table and die. Instead, a savage satisfaction bloomed in my chest.

Another grenade lobbed at my father’s perfect plans. Another crack in the facade of his carefully orchestrated life.

The fact that I’d partly done it to make Caleb jealous? That delightful little truth got shoved into a mental box labeled “Deal With Never” and locked with approximately seventeen deadbolts.

We slipped back into our seats like we hadn’t just defiled my father’s sanctuary of capitalism. Anthony vibrated with post-sex swagger, practically glowing with the confidence of a man who’d just conquered virgin territory. Literally.

“Impressive collection, Mr. Wallace,” he managed, voice only slightly strangled. Points for trying to sound normal while probably still tasting me on his lips.

My mother’s gaze could’ve stripped paint off walls. She knew. Of course she knew. Mothers always know when their daughters have been properly corrupted.

But I was so far past caring what Camille Wallace thought about anything. She’d slapped me for speaking truth, enabled my father’s control for decades. Her disapproval meant less than nothing.

I scan the table, noting the empty chair.

“Where’s Caleb?” The question escaped before I could strangle it, hanging in the air like a confession.

My father barely glanced up from his tiramisu, more focused on the perfect ratio of espresso to cream than his daughter’s obvious distress. “Headache from the wine selection. Went to rest.”

Anthony leaned close, his breath hot against my ear, cologne mixing with the lingering scent of sex. “Why do you even care about that old guy?”

The words landed like shrapnel, each one finding its mark with surgical precision. Old guy. As if Caleb was some doddering grandfather instead of the only person in this twisted fairy tale who’d ever seen me as more than a commodity to be traded.

I kept my smile frozen in place, counting seconds like rosary beads until this nightmare dinner finally ended. “Just being polite,” I murmur. “Unlike some people.”

The evening grinds to its inevitable conclusion. The Harrises’ departure involves the kind of theatrical air kisses that rich people perfected in lieu of actual human connection.

Mrs. Harris clutched my hands, gushing about wedding planning sessions and dress fittings like we were already family. Mr. Harris clapped my father on the shoulder, sealing their devil’s bargain with masculine approval.

I watched Anthony’s face throughout the goodbye ritual, searching for any flicker of real emotion that might complicate my exit strategy.

If he’d caught feelings from our study session, if he thought that desperate, angry sex meant something more—that would be messy.

But he played it beautifully cool, maintaining just enough distance to signal this was still a business arrangement with benefits.

“Don’t forget about that dinner you owe me,” he said, loud enough for parental approval. Then, turning to my father with practiced deference: “With your permission, Mr. Wallace.”

Of course Daddy dearest practically threw his blessing at them like confetti at a parade. “Absolutely! Mikaela would be delighted. Wouldn’t you, sweetheart?”

“I’ll text you,” I promised, already mentally composing the letdown. Something gentle but firm over appetizers. Sorry, but I’m too fucked up to love you seemed like a salad course conversation. Maybe between the Caesar and the soup.

The house settled into its nighttime routine—staff dismissed, parents retreating to their separate wings, me alone with thoughts that wouldn’t stop spinning.

My bed felt like a torture device designed specifically to prevent sleep.

Every time I closed my eyes, I was back in that wine cellar, Caleb’s hands pushing me away, his voice telling me this was wrong. Or I was in my father’s office, using Anthony’s body like a weapon against everyone who’d tried to control me.

My sheets twisted into restraints as I thrashed between memories and half-formed dreams. In one, I was saying something important—urgent—but the words dissolved the second my eyes snapped open.

The clock became my enemy, each glowing number a mockery of my insomnia.

3:47 AM—still awake, still replaying every humiliating second.

4:23 AM—had I really fucked Anthony just to hurt Caleb? Was I that petty? That damaged?

5:15 AM—time moved like molasses through a freezer, each minute an eternity of self-recrimination.

Finally, exhaustion won. I drifted into something that barely qualified as sleep, more like skimming the surface of unconsciousness without ever fully going under. My body relaxed incrementally, muscles unclenching one by one, breath evening out into something approaching normal.

Then something shifted in the air pressure of my room. A presence that didn’t belong. My survival instincts kicked in a millisecond before my eyes flew open, mouth opening to scream—

A hand clamped over my mouth. Firm. Familiar. The scent hit me before visual recognition: wine and expensive cologne, leather and something indefinably male.

My body knew him before my brain caught up, every nerve ending suddenly electric with awareness.

Caleb.

In my room. At dawn. His hand covering my mouth, his body casting shadows across my bed like some kind of fever dream made flesh.

Our eyes met in the dim light filtering through my curtains, and my heart hammered against my ribs so hard I thought they might crack.

His expression remained unreadable in the darkness, a cipher I couldn’t decode, while his palm pressed warm against my lips, silencing whatever words might have escaped.