When Bethel returned to the table, the dinner plates had been cleared. In their place sat a bottle of tequila and a shot glass. A spinning bottle lay in the center of the table.

"Truth or Dare!" someone shouted. "To liven up this wake!"

Bethel tried to sit, intending to grab her purse and leave, but Preston caught her hand. "Come on, Bethel! Don't be a spoil-sport. Just one round."

She was trapped again.

Baron sat across from her. He had undone the top button of his shirt, exposing the hollow of his throat. He looked relaxed, but his fingers were drumming a rhythmic, agitated beat on the tablecloth.

The bottle spun. It whirred against the wood, blurring.

It slowed down. Tick. Tick. Tick.

It stopped. The neck of the bottle pointed directly at Bethel.

A cheer went up around the table.

"I'll ask," Clarissa said immediately. Her eyes gleamed with malice. "Truth or Dare, Bethel?"

"Truth," Bethel said. She wasn't going to perform like a circus animal for these people.

Clarissa leaned her chin on her hand. "Okay. Truth. Chynna mentioned you have a bit of a history. Is the rumor true? Did you really dump some poor guy five years ago because a better offer came along?"

The room went silent. The air was sucked out of the space.

Bethel's heart hammered against her ribs. Clarissa didn't know the ex was Baron. She thought Baron was just a spectator. But the question was a direct arrow aimed at him.

Baron stopped drumming his fingers. He slowly lifted his eyes. The storm in them was raging now. He was staring at her with an intensity that made her skin burn.

He was waiting. He was waiting for her to say she made a mistake. He was waiting for a crack in the armor.

If she said she regretted it, Baron would ask why. He would dig. And if he dug, he would find the federal indictment against her father. He would find the blackmail. He would find out she did it for him.

And then he would lose his security clearance. He would lose his career. He would lose his family's respect.

Bethel dug her fingernails into her thigh until she felt the skin break through the fabric of her dress. She had to kill the hope in his eyes. She had to finish what she started five years ago.

She lifted her chin and looked Baron dead in the eye.

"No," she said, her voice steady and cold. "No regrets."

Baron flinched. It was small, a micro-spasm in his jaw, but she saw it. It was the look of a man who had just been stabbed in the chest by someone he trusted.

The people around the table murmured, scandalized by her callousness.

Baron let out a short, terrifying laugh. It sounded like glass breaking.

He reached out and grabbed the shot glass of tequila that was meant for the loser of the game. It wasn't his turn. It wasn't his penalty.

He threw his head back and downed the burning liquid in one swallow. His Adam's apple bobbed.

He slammed the heavy glass down on the table. The sound was violent, cracking the delicate stem of a nearby wine glass.

Baron stood up so abruptly his chair screeched backward, toppling over onto the carpet. He didn't pick it up. He didn't look at Clarissa. He didn't look at Preston.

He looked at the wall, his chest heaving.

"I'm done," he growled.

He turned and stormed toward the door. He shoved the heavy mahogany panels open with such force they banged against the wall.

He was gone.

The room was left in a stunned silence. Bethel sat frozen, her heart bleeding out in her chest. She had done it. She had protected him.

And it felt like dying.

The party dissolved quickly after Baron's exit. Bethel murmured an excuse about a migraine and grabbed her purse.

She was halfway down the hall when Chynna came running out, her face flushed and her steps unsteady.

"Bethel! Wait!"

Chynna grabbed Bethel's arm, swaying slightly. "God, can you believe him? So moody. Genius types, right?"

Bethel tried to pull away. "I really need to go, Chynna."

"No, listen," Chynna whispered, leaning in too close. Her breath smelled of expensive Chardonnay. "You don't get it. You have to forgive him. Do you know who his family is?"

Bethel's pulse skipped a beat. "I don't keep up with D.C. gossip."

"His grandfather was a four-star General," Chynna said, widening her eyes. "His dad chairs the Senate Armed Services Committee. Baron isn't just an engineer. He's... he's handling stuff that doesn't exist yet. NASA and DoD joint projects."

Chynna giggled, a hiccup escaping her. "Preston said the background check to even date a Lowery is insane. Like, if you stole a candy bar in third grade, the FBI knows. If your family has any dirt... poof. You're gone."

The blood drained from Bethel's face. It wasn't surprise that chilled her, but a sickening wave of confirmation. The words weren't new information; they were the very bars of the cage she had locked herself in five years ago, now being described to her by an oblivious jailer. The weight of that knowledge, a burden she carried alone, pressed down on her, stealing the air from her lungs.

"Imagine," Chynna continued, oblivious to Bethel's terror. "If you had a criminal in the family? Baron would be stripped of his clearance before the first date was over. He's here to clean up a mess in the Houston program. He's ruthless."

Bethel felt sick. Her father was currently sitting in a federal penitentiary for federal fraud tied to a suspected treason case. If she had stayed with Baron, his career would be ash.

"I have to go," Bethel choked out.

"Okay, okay! Come to the bachelorette party! Promise!"

Bethel nodded blindly and turned toward the elevators. The display showed the car was stuck on the top floor. She couldn't wait. She couldn't risk seeing anyone else.

She pushed open the heavy door to the stairwell.

The concrete space was cool and dimly lit. Her heels clicked loudly on the metal steps, the sound echoing in the vertical shaft. She needed this quiet. She needed this escape.

She descended one flight, clutching the railing.

Then she smelled it.

Cedar and expensive tobacco.

She stopped. Her hand froze on the cold metal rail.

Below her, on the landing between floors, a tall shadow was leaning against the wall. The orange cherry of a cigarette glowed in the darkness, illuminating the sharp line of a jaw.

Baron was waiting.

He wasn't looking at her. He was looking at the smoke curling up from his fingers. He hadn't been gone for more than ten minutes, yet he was here, perfectly positioned in her only escape route. He hadn't fled in anger; he had set a trap.

"Taking the stairs?" his voice rumbled up to her, low and vibrating against the concrete walls.

Bethel's breath hitched. She turned to run back up, but the heavy door above her clicked shut.

Baron dropped the cigarette and crushed it under the heel of his shoe. He looked up. His eyes were dark voids in the dim light.

"Running away again, Bethel?"

Bethel turned to flee, but Baron moved with terrifying speed. He took the stairs two at a time, his long legs eating up the distance between them.

Before she could reach the door handle, his hand clamped around her wrist. His grip was iron, hot and unyielding.

He spun her around and slammed her back against the concrete wall.

The impact knocked the breath out of her. Baron stepped in, placing his hands on the wall on either side of her head, caging her in.

He was close. Too close. She could smell the whiskey on his breath, mixed with the smoke. It was a scent that used to mean safety, home. Now it smelled like danger.

"Baron, stop," she gasped, her hands coming up to push against his chest. It was like pushing against a brick wall.

He lowered his head until his nose was almost touching hers. "No regrets? Really?"

He was obsessed with the answer. It was eating him alive.

"You're drunk," Bethel whispered, turning her face away.

He grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into her jaw, forcing her to look at him. His eyes were bloodshot, filled with a chaotic mix of fury and desire.

"Look at me," he commanded. "Tell me again. Look me in the eye and tell me you don't regret it."

Bethel stared into the grey depths of his eyes. She saw the pain there, raw and bleeding. She wanted to wrap her arms around him. She wanted to tell him everything.

But she couldn't.

"I..."

She didn't get the word out.

Baron crashed his mouth onto hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was an assault. It was punishment. His lips were hard, demanding, bruising. He ground his mouth against hers, forcing her lips apart.

Bethel let out a muffled cry of shock. She struggled, hitting his chest, but he caught both her wrists in one of his large hands and pinned them above her head against the wall.

He was overwhelming her. His tongue invaded her mouth, tasting of bitterness and alcohol. For a second, just a split second, Bethel's body betrayed her. Her knees went weak. The familiarity of him, the taste of him, triggered a muscle memory of love that five years hadn't erased.

A tear leaked from her eye, sliding down her cheek to mingle with their kissing mouths.

Baron tasted the salt.

He froze.

He tore his mouth away, his chest heaving. He stared at her, his eyes wild. He looked at her wet lips, at the tear tracking down her face.

He released her wrists as if they burned him.

Bethel slumped against the wall, gasping for air, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Baron stepped back. He adjusted his tie, his face shutting down. The mask of the cold, elite engineer slammed back into place.

"You're right," he said, his voice ice cold. "You aren't worth the regret."

He looked at her with pure disdain.

"Disappear, Bethel. If I see you in Houston again, I won't be this polite."

He turned and pushed through the stairwell door, leaving her alone in the dark.

Bethel slid down the wall until she hit the concrete floor. She pulled her knees to her chest and buried her face in her arms, sobbing silently into the darkness.