Page 84 of Enticing the Enforcer
Each one should make me feel powerful. Breakups are supposed to be my fuel. Heartache to chorus, betrayal to bridge. But instead of fire, all I feel is water pressing down on me. A slow, suffocating weight.
“Ingrid.” Madison snaps her fingers in front of my face, dragging me back to the real world. “You’re not even listening.”
“I am,” I lie. My voice sounds flat, even to me.
She narrows her eyes, arms crossed like she’s dealing with a stubborn teenager instead of her boss-slash-best-friend. “Okay, then repeat back what I just said.”
I can’t. The only words in my head are Jefferson’s.“Yes, there’s a list–”
Madison sighs and pushes her laptop toward me, screen glowing with a color-coded spreadsheet. “Okay, listen. You need focus. Distraction. Forward motion.” She taps one column with her nails, each click sharp as a metronome. “Studio sessions–we’ve got producers in L.A. begging to book you the second you’re back. I said we’d keep it flexible, but if you want, I can lock in dates.”
She scrolls. “The film adaptation is heating up again–remember that director who passed the first time? He’s circling back. Wants to meet. Says he’s finally got the financing lined up.”
My eyes skim the list, but the words don’t stick.
“Merch collab,” she keeps going, relentlessly. “The fashion house wants to design a capsule with your name on it. Think edgy, European, runway crossover vibes. And,” her voice lifts, like this is the clincher, “a publisher reached out about a book deal. Not a coffee table photo spread, a real memoir. People want the story behind the songs, Ingrid. Your story. That’s legacy stuff.”
I force a nod, though it all lands like noise. A hundred opportunities I should care about, should grab with both hands. Instead, I feel like I’m watching her from underwater–Madison’s mouth moving, her eyes sharp, her voice cutting through, but all of it muffled, distorted.
She notices. She always notices. “I’m handing you the world here, and you’re giving me nothing.”
“I just got off an eighteen-month successful tour, Madison. What else do you want me to give?” My voice comes out sharper than I intend, clipped and fraying at the edges. “Fuck. That came out harsh.”
Madison blinks, then quietly shuts the laptop. The click feels final. “I’m sorry. You’re right. You’re exhausted. I’ll tell everyone you’ll get back to them when you’re ready.”
I sink back into the cushion and stare at my nails. “No,” I murmur after a beat. “I’m sorry. This isn’t about work.”
Work is my thing. It’s where I thrive, where I prove myself, but it’s also where I hide. Madison knows that as well as I do.
“Still stressed about him?” she asks carefully.
The question lands like a stone in my chest. “I’m more wondering why I always pick the worst guys. Like… how can I walk into a room, scan a hundred men, and go, ‘yeah, that’s the one. Give me the most toxic option available.’”
Madison lets out a brittle laugh. “I guess you have a type.”
We both know it’s not funny.
“I thought he was different.” My throat tightens as the words slip out, softer, almost to myself. Hewasdifferent–at least he seemed that way. Maybe because he never looked at me like a prize he’d already won, but like a fight he wanted to keep showing up for. Because he listened. Because he made me laugh. He made me feel so good.
Madison shifts beside me. “I shouldn’t have told you about the list.”
I lift my eyes to her, sharp. “Don’t blame yourself.”
But even as I say it, something prickles at the back of my mind. Madisonhadmade a choice to tell me and only after I’d fallen hard. If she’d told me that night in Chicago, I could have kept walking. Why did she wait until I gave my heart to him? My body?
I shove the thought down before it can grow teeth. I’m too raw to pick apart motives, too tired to chase shadows. I’m the one that made the decision to pursue him and I’m the one that has to take the blame.
The boutique is locatedin Wynwood, tucked in a small, unassuming storefront. I’d been told about Bridgette’s designs by my makeup artist and when she showed me her work, I’d been mesmerized. In person it’s the kind of place where everything is curated down to the background playlist. Racks of gowns in muted jewel tones line the walls, while Bridgette keeps flitting around me with pins clenched between her teeth.
Madison had argued that I should have the dresses brought to the house with the excuse that it’s easier and safer, more “controlled.” But that’s one thing Jefferson taught me. I don’t have to hide all the time. I can go out, and I can live. If people see me, they see me.
It’s not like I’m braving the streets alone. Marv positions himself out front, standing at the front door, even though it’s locked for a private fitting. The material clings against my skin as I step into a deep emerald slip dress, bias cut so it skims along my waist and pools at my feet. The seamstress tugs the straps just so, then retreats, muttering something about the hem. I tilt toward the mirror, fingers grazing the fabric, imagining the ball lights scattering over me. The next image is one of Jefferson’s hands, steady and sure, at my hips. My chest tightens and I push the thought away.
My phone buzzes on the velvet chair. I suspect it’s him and almost ignore it, but I step off the platform and check. It’s Shelby.
I swipe to answer, pressing the phone to my ear as I balance on one heel while the seamstress adjusts the other. I skip the pleasantries. “If you’re trying to get me to take him back, don’t.”
“I’m not,” Shelby says quickly. “I just wanted to check on you and see how you’re doing.”
