Page 83 of The Final Contract
Tears spill hot down my cheeks, but they’re not born of fear. Anger sears through me, raw and sharp. My stomach clenches, my fists shake.
It pisses me off.
I swipe at my face hard, glaring at the mess on the floor. “This needs to end. I’m done.” My voice cracks but doesn’t waver. “I’m quitting the Ledger.”
I turn, heading back to my room, ignoring the guard who hovers near the door. Behind me, Killian snaps, “Clean this up,” the words a barked order that makes even me flinch.
I toss my robe aside, tugging on jeans and a top with quick, jerky motions. Killian’s in the doorway, watching every move like I’m a frightened animal.
“And where are we going?” His tone is clipped, steel.
“To the Ledger,” I say, zipping my jeans with a hard yank. “I want my things, so I don’t have to go back there again.”
He steps in, towering, hands on his hips. “This won’t end if you quit your job.”
“I know,” I bite out, meeting his eyes. “But I won’t drag this into the Ledger. I won’t compromise the other Companions. Whatever ploys you all want to try to lure him out—I’ll be the one to do it. Me.”
For a beat, silence hangs, heavy as stone, and I think he’s going to fight me on it. His jaw ticks, his eyes hard, but then he nods once, sharp and firm.
“All right.” He pulls his phone out, dialing. “Get the car ready.”
The Ledger feels different tonight. Quieter. The halls aren’t buzzing the way they usually are, because most of the Companions are out on weekend contracts. The weekends are always busiest—dinners, galas, getaways. Everyone but me.
After Lucian reassures me Sylvia’s fine, I split off from Killian, heading for my private dressing room. Senior Companions like me and Eve get our own spaces—our wardrobes, our things, a room where we can shut the door and breathe before a contract. We all use the Ledger’s salon and services, sure, but these rooms are… ours.
I feel like I haven’t been here in forever.
The door hisses open, the automatic lights flicker on, and my breath lodges in my throat.
“Oh my God.”
I slap a hand over my mouth as the door clicks shut behind me.
My room is destroyed.
Red paint screams across the walls: LEDGER BITCH. WHORE.
My gowns—Ledger red—are shredded, hanging off splintered hangers like bodies in a gallows. Drawers overturned, contents scattered, my shoes upended, the air sharp with chemical paint and the metallic tang of something that feels like blood but isn’t.
And then I see pictures. Everywhere.
Me. Pinned to every wall. My eyes crossed out in thick black X’s.
A tremor runs through me, my hands curling into fists. My pulse slams so hard I can hear it in my ears.
“No,” I choke out. “No.”
I whirl, my arm sweeping across the wall, sending the pictures raining down like dead leaves. I claw some off with both hands, ripping them, tearing them until shreds litter the already-trashed floor. My breaths come harsh, ragged, fury blistering through my veins hotter than fear.
“This ends. Do you hear me?” I scream at the empty room, at whoever’s listening, at whoever’s lurking. “This fucking ends!”
I stomp toward the door, chest heaving, when something catches my eye.
A picture.
It’s taped dead center on the inside of the door.
My knees nearly buckle.
