Today, Scarlett flew in from Miami to spend my so-called final week of freedom with me. She’d cut her hair short-inky black, sharp, defiant. A leather jacket hugged her shoulders, ripped jeans clung to her legs, and her battered Doc Martens were still her weapon of choice. In my carefully ordered, rule-bound life, she was pure rebellion. And yet, she was the person I trusted most.
We ordered takeout using her phone, planning a quiet girls’ night at home. When she headed into the bathroom to shower, her phone began vibrating on the couch. The screen lit up. I glanced at it, assuming the delivery driver was close.
“Elara, can you check who that is?” Scarlett called from behind the bathroom door.
But the screen didn’t show a food app. It showed a message.
From: King of Spades
Game on. My weapon’s ready for you tonight.
My fingers froze inches above the screen. The nickname was unsettling enough. Worse still, the contact was pinned to the top. The phone buzzed again. Another message-no, a photo. I knew I shouldn’t look. It was none of my business. But my gaze had already latched on.
The image displayed a set of black lace lingerie, sheer to the point of indecency. Beside it-my cheeks flamed. Things I had only ever seen in films. Restraints. Metal rings. Leather straps. My pulse thundered. Scarlett was into… that?
Then my attention caught on the background of the photo. A man’s bare chest. Solid, sun-browned skin. And a scar.
A vicious, lightning-shaped scar stretched from his left shoulder, slashing diagonally toward his heart.
My hands began to tremble. I knew that scar. I knew it too well. I had traced it countless times with my fingertips during our most intimate moments. Damian told me he’d gotten it in a shootout. Said he’d nearly died.
No. That was impossible. I had to be mistaken. New York was full of men. Full of scars. This had to be coincidence.
The phone slipped from my grasp and landed soundlessly on the rug. I stared at it, my heartbeat spiraling out of control. This couldn’t be real. Scarlett was my best friend. Damian was my fiancé. They despised each other. Scarlett always said Damian was too dangerous for me. Damian insisted Scarlett was a corrupting influence. Getting them through a single dinner together felt like a hostage negotiation. Whatever this was, it couldn’t be true.
It had only happened once.
I grabbed the phone and hurriedly dialed Damian’s number. The video call connected almost immediately.
“Baby.” Damian’s face filled the screen-impeccably handsome, dark hair slightly tousled. “Already missing me?”
“Where are you?” I asked, forcing my voice to stay calm.
“Taking care of business. Tedious stuff.” He studied me, frowning. “You look pale. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just…” I inhaled slowly. “Could you come over tonight?”
“Of course. Give me an hour.” His expression softened. “Elara, are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.” The lie tasted bitter. That scar refused to leave my mind.
“Oh-one more thing,” Damian added suddenly. “Scarlett’s back, isn’t she?”
“Yes. She’s showering.”
His jaw tightened. “I’ve told you again and again. She’s trouble. A bad influence.”
“Damian-”
“I mean it,” he interrupted. “She comes from the gutter, Elara. Violence. Drugs. Chaos. That’s her world. Not yours.”
A memory surfaced-high school, a narrow alley after class. Three boys had cornered me. Then Scarlett appeared, swinging a bike chain, her eyes lethal and unflinching. That was the first time I witnessed real violence. And the moment I fell in love with her wild, uncontainable fire.
“She saved my life,” I said quietly.
“That was years ago.” His tone softened once more. “You have me now. I’ll protect you. You don’t need people like her anymore.”
I nodded, though the knot in my stomach only grew tighter.
“I love you,” he said. “I’ll see you in an hour.”
The call ended.
I remained on the couch, staring at Scarlett’s phone. Maybe I was imagining things. Maybe the scar meant nothing. Maybe-
The sound of the shower shutting off cut through my thoughts. Scarlett would be out any second. I placed the phone back exactly where it had been, acting as if nothing had happened. But the images were seared into my mind-the black lace, the restraints, the lightning-shaped scar.
I stepped out onto the terrace, desperate for air, hoping the night breeze would steady me. The wedding was only a week away. I was about to marry the most powerful man in New York. My best friend had flown aBlack states to stand by my side. Everything was supposed to be flawless.
So why did it feel like the ground beneath me was splitting open?
Footsteps sounded behind me. A hand settled on my shoulder.
“Elara.”
