Page 7 of The Placeholder
“Marla,” I continue, keeping my voice level but unflinching, “you hired us because you’re in danger. Real danger. Not the kind that sells magazines or boosts your social media engagement. The kind that ends with body bags and press statements about ‘tragic losses.’”
For the first time, Marla’s flirtatious facade cracks, revealing something raw and young underneath. She pulls her robe tighter around herself, suddenly looking every bit her twenty-one years.
“I thought the letters were just... intense fans,” she whispers.
“They’re not.” I meet her eyes directly. “And if you want to live to see your next album release, you need to take this seriously. Starting now.”
Rain begins to lash against the windows, the city lights blurring into watercolor streaks beyond the glass. Thunder rumbles in the distance, a bass note underscoring the sudden silence in the room.
“Okay,” Marla says quietly, all pretense gone. “Tell me what to do.”
I nod once, relief and determination coursing through me in equal measure. “First, we’re moving you to a secure location. Tonight. Pack only essentials.”
As she turns to comply, our eyes lock for a moment. Something passes between us—understanding, perhaps, or the recognition that beneath our respective armor, we’re both fighting battles others can’t see.
“Axel?” she asks, vulnerability replacing seduction in her voice.
“Yes?”
“Thank you for not treating me like everyone else does—either a product or a princess.”
I don’t respond immediately, surprised by her insight. Finally, I give her a single, professional nod.
“Ten minutes to pack, Ms. Rivers. Then we move.”
CHAPTER 4
DELLA
THREE WEEKS LATER
The sweet tang of lemon meringue pie lingers on my tongue as I laugh harder than I have in weeks. Freedom tastes better than dessert—like sunshine and possibility had a baby, and I’m eating it with a fork.
“So there I am, trying to finalize the Instagram campaign for the spring collection, when my phone buzzes for the fifteenth time that day,” I say, rolling my eyes so hard I practically see my own brain as sunlight dapples our outdoor table at Café Lucerne like confetti from heaven. “Another text from Jared, this time with a photo of him doing laundry with the caption ‘missing your washing machine... and you.’ In that order, mind you.”
Betsy snorts, nearly baptizing herself in mimosa. Her engagement ring catches the light as she steadies her glass, sending prism-like reflections dancing across our white tablecloth like tiny disco balls.
“Henry’s making him do his own laundry? I’mshocked he even knows how to operate a washing machine,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Conor would die laughing if he saw Jared’s domestic transformation.”
I watch Liana lean forward, her dark curls brushing the rim of her espresso cup like a bouquet of question marks. “Girl, please tell me you’re not considering taking him back. That man got a free ride for seven years while contributing the domestic skills of a decorative houseplant."
“Absolutely not,” I say, my voice so firm it could win an arm-wrestling competition. “Two weeks of freedom have been revolutionary—I’ve repainted the living room flamingo pink just because I can and reclaimed the middle of the bed like Columbus discovering America, except without the genocide.”
An April breeze pirouettes across the patio, carrying the scent of blooming cherry trees and someone’s slightly burnt waffle. I close my eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply. No more Jared’s overpowering cologne that made my apartment smell like the inside of an Abercrombie store had a baby with a taxi air freshener.
Besides,” I continue, stabbing a leftover lemon meringue crumb with my fork like it personally offended me, “Henry’s making Jared pay actual rent and perform household chores like he’s discovered a new species of responsibility. His last text included a bathroom selfie—not the sexy kind—but him pouting next to a toilet brush as if it were an alien artifact from Planet Adult.”
Liana deadpans, “Shocking revelation for a thirty-two-year-old man who thought fabric softener was aconspiracy theory,” while expertly balancing her spoon on the rim of her coffee cup like a circus performer.
Betsy swirls her mimosa with such intense concentration you’d think she was decoding DNA, her engagement ring creating tiny champagne tsunamis. "Let’s talk about something more pleasant—like my centerpieces! I was thinking hydrangeas with?—”
"Oh!” Liana interrupts, eyes gleaming like a raccoon who’s found an unlocked dumpster. “I almost forgot the juiciest morsel of gossip. Tell Betsy about your brother’s visit to Jared’s new place.”
My eyebrows shoot up so fast they nearly achieve orbit. “Felix went to Henry’s apartment? When?”
Liana’s smile turns predatory, like a cat who’s cornered both the canary and its life insurance policy. “Three days ago. After Jared’s one hundred and fortieth call to you—I counted, by the way—Felix decided enough was enough.”
My pulse quickens. “Again? One time was enough.”
