Page 74 of Fractured Allegiance
I stand by the window long after he’s gone, arms folded, eyes scanning the rooftop that gave nothing back. My reflection wavers in the glass, the bandage peeking out beneath the robe I threw on after the mirror. I look like someone pretending they weren’t caught off guard.
I don’t like pretending.
My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter.
I cross the room to check it, expecting Dom again. A second wave of cryptic warnings. Another breadcrumb tossed from a man who’s never once said what he really means.
But it’s not Dom.
It’s Drazen.
No greeting.
Just a time.
"Upstairs. One hour."
Nothing else.
But that’s enough.
Because Drazen doesn’t text. He summons.
And when he summons with those few words, it’s never about logistics.
It’s about control.
I stare at the message for a full minute before locking the phone and setting it face-down. The weight of it doesn't go away. It sits behind my ribcage, familiar and heavy.
Upstairs.
Not the public part of the club. Not the bar. Not the booth in the back where deals are whispered and drinks are poisoned with intentions.
The private floor. The one with velvet walls and low music and secrets disguised as decadence.
He never asks twice.
But that’s not why I go.
I go because I won’t let him wonder if I’m afraid.
Because control, in this world, doesn’t come from saying no.
It comes from showing up like you own the room — even if you’re the one being sold.
I walk to the closet.
The red dress is still draped over the chair. Smoke-stained. Dust-flecked. Ruined.
I don’t even hesitate.
I shove it into the laundry hamper, walk to the back of the closet, and pull out the other one.
Deeper red.
Darker cut.
Fitted like it was stitched for sins.
