My stomach dropped.
Six weeks earlier, I had found it taped beneath the marble sink in the ladies’ room of a small coffee shop on Wabash Avenue. I had gone there after Derek locked me out of our apartment for crying too loudly. There had been a number scratched onto the edge of the mirror in red lipstick.
IF HE HURTS YOU, SEND PROOF. ASK FOR V.
I thought it was a cruel joke.
Still, with shaking hands, I sent one photo.
Then another.
Then recordings.
Then dates.
Then names.
I never knew who answered. Only that the messages always came back the same way.
Stay alive. Keep smiling. Wear the silver dress to the gala. We will come when everyone is watching.
I had not known V meant Victor.
I had not known the most dangerous man in Chicago had been reading my pain in silence.
Derek saw recognition flicker across my face.
His eyes narrowed.
“You,” he breathed.
I stepped back.
For the first time, not because someone pulled me.
Because I chose to.