Cayla POV

The chill in my apartment wasn't just the draft; it was a sterile, quiet cold that settled deep in the lungs.

I sat on the hexagonal tiles of the bathroom floor, the ceramic biting into my skin as I stitched the jagged cut on my forehead. I used a needle and thread scavenged from the first aid kit.

A mob doctor had taught me the trick of it years ago, his hands steady while mine had shaken.

Bite down on a towel, Cayla. It hurts less if you don't scream.

I tied off the knot, my fingers slick with blood, and glanced at Justen's photo propped against the vanity mirror.

"I tried to come to you," I told him, my voice hollow in the empty room. "The car crash was supposed to be it."

My phone rang.

It was Grafton.

"Where are you?"

"Home."

"Get to the bakery on 4th. Cherrelle wants the raspberry torte. The specific one with the gold leaf."

I closed my eyes, the fever throbbing behind my eyelids. "Grafton, it's pouring rain. And it's across the city."

"Did I ask for a weather report?"

The line went dead.

I didn't argue. I didn't have the energy for rebellion. I put on my coat.

I drove through the storm, the windshield wipers fighting a losing battle against the deluge, the rhythm hypnotizing and cruel.

I secured the cake like it was a transplant organ.

I stood outside the penthouse door, shivering, water dripping from the ends of my hair onto the expensive, satin-finish box.

Grafton opened the door.

He looked at me-soaking wet, my skin pale as the ghost I wished I was.

For a second, something flickered in his eyes. Guilt? Or just the discomfort of seeing a broken thing he used to own?

Then Cherrelle appeared behind him.

"Finally!" She snatched the box.

She opened it, took a fork, and ate a bite.

She made a face, wrinkling her nose with theatrical disgust.

"Ew. It's too sweet. I can't eat this."

She dropped the box into the trash can with a careless thud.

"Grafton, tell her to go to the North branch. Theirs is better."

I stood there, swaying slightly as the fever burned through my veins like wildfire.

"Cherrelle," Grafton said, his voice hesitant. "It's a storm out there."

"So?" She pouted, tilting her head. "It's my party tonight. Do you not want me to be happy?"

Grafton looked at her, then at me.

He made his choice.

"Go to the North branch, Cayla."

I went.

By the time I returned, the silence of the drive had been replaced by chaos. The party was in full swing.

Heavy bass thumped through the floorboards, vibrating in my aching teeth.

Capos and soldiers were drinking, laughing, their voices a jagged wall of sound.

I placed the second cake on the table.

My vision was blurring, the room tilting on its axis.

"A toast!" Cherrelle shouted, standing on a chair.

She held up a bottle of amber liquid.

"To Grafton! The King of Chicago!"

She poured a glass and held it to his lips.

"Drink, baby."

I froze.

It was a rare Japanese whiskey.

Grafton was deathly allergic to a specific additive used in that brand's aging process. Justen had told me. It caused anaphylaxis within minutes-a throat closing tight as a fist.

Grafton hesitated. He knew it too.

But everyone was watching.

Cherrelle was smiling, challenging him.

"What's wrong? Don't you trust me?"

Brooks stepped forward, his face tense. "Miss Hughes, the Don shouldn't-"

"Shut up, Brooks!" she snapped. "It's a Loyalty Test. Drink it, Grafton."

Grafton's hand trembled as he took the glass.

He was too proud to refuse in front of his men. He would rather die than look weak.

He raised it to his lips.

I moved.

I didn't think; I just acted. I snatched the glass from his hand.

"What do you think you're doing?" Cherrelle shrieked.

"He's driving later," I lied, my voice raspy. "I'll drink it."

I downed the glass in one swallow.

It burned like acid, searing a path down my throat.

"Another one!" Cherrelle yelled, furious that I had ruined her moment. "If you're so loyal, drink the bottle!"

I poured another glass.

I drank it.

And another.

The room started to spin, faces melting into smears of color.

I finished the bottle and slammed it onto the table.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out his EpiPen and antihistamines, sliding them discreetly into Grafton's palm.

"Take them," I whispered, my words slurring. "Just in case."

Grafton looked at the meds in his hand.

He looked at me, swaying, eyes unfocused.

He didn't see a woman saving his life.

He saw a drunk, jealous ex-assistant making a scene.

"You're a mess, Cayla," he muttered, pocketing the meds.

He turned back to Cherrelle, who was clapping.

I stumbled to the corner and sank into a velvet armchair.

My throat was closing up.

Not from an allergy.

But from the sheer, suffocating weight of loving a ghost in a house of demons.

Cayla POV

The party finally bled out at 3 AM.

I was curled up in the guest room, shivering violently beneath the thin sheets.

The fever from the rain and the shock from the alcohol were warring in my body, leaving me trembling and weak.

The door banged open, shattering the silence.

Grafton stood there, impatiently loosening his tie.

"Get up. Cherrelle needs an escort to her car. She doesn't trust the drivers."

"Grafton, please," I whispered, my voice cracking. "I'm sick."

"You're hungover," he corrected coldly. "Get up."

I dragged myself off the bed, fighting the dizziness that threatened to topple me.

We went down to the lobby.

The hotel lobby had a massive decorative fountain in the center, filled with coins and water kept at a near-freezing temperature to discourage guests from touching it.

Cherrelle was waiting there, looking pristine and untouched by the night's excesses.

She saw me stumbling behind Grafton.

She smiled, a wicked glint lighting up her eyes.

"Oops," she said softly.

She threw herself backward, right over the low wall of the fountain.

Splash.

She screamed, thrashing in the shallow water like she was drowning.

"Help! She pushed me! Cayla pushed me!"

I was ten feet away.

But Grafton didn't care about physics or distance.

He turned on me, his face twisted into a snarl.

"I warned you."

He grabbed my arm and hauled me to the fountain.

"You want her in the water? Then you go in the water."

He shoved me.

I hit the water hard.

It was paralyzing.

I gasped, inhaling water, choking as the icy shock seized my lungs.

"Stay there," Grafton ordered the guards, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Don't let her out until morning. Let her cool off that jealousy."

He helped Cherrelle out, wrapping his coat around her shivering shoulders.

"My poor baby," he cooed.

I sat in the fountain, the water soaking my clothes, chilling me to the bone.

The guards looked away, embarrassed but too afraid to disobey the man who signed their paychecks.

I sat there until sunrise.

When I finally walked back up to the penthouse, I was numb. My legs felt like blocks of ice, and my clothes were a heavy, sodden weight dragging me down.

I went to the guest room to change.

Grafton was there, waiting.

He was holding my phone.

It had been on the table, charging.

The screen was lit up.

It was the photo of Justen.

He was smiling, wearing a leather jacket, standing by his motorcycle.

Grafton and Justen looked like twins, except for the eyes.

Justen's eyes were warm. Grafton's were ice.

Grafton stared at the photo, his brow furrowed.

"Is this... is this me?" he asked, his voice strange.

He looked closer.

"No. That jacket. I never owned that jacket."

He looked at me, disgust curling his lip.

"You Photoshopped me? You edited a picture of me to make me look... happier? To fit your fantasy?"

"It's not you," I said hoarsely, my throat raw.

"Don't lie!" He threw the phone onto the bed. "You are sick, Cayla. You collect photos of me, you attack my girlfriend, you drink yourself into a stupor."

He walked to the door.

"You're planning Cherrelle's birthday Gala next week. Make it perfect. Or you're done."

He slammed the door.

I picked up the phone.

I touched Justen's face on the screen.

"He doesn't even recognize you anymore," I whispered to the ghost in the picture. "He's forgotten you."

Cayla POV

The Gala was a masterpiece of gold and white, a visual symphony I had orchestrated from the shadows.

I had arranged everything. The cascading orchids, the vintage champagne chilled to perfection, the string quartet playing softly in the corner.

Yet, I stood in the shadows, wearing a plain black dress, holding a clipboard like a shield.

Grafton looked magnificent in his tuxedo, a dark prince amidst the light.

Cherrelle looked like a queen in red silk, vibrant and dangerous.

She was holding court near the champagne tower, basking in the adoration of the room.

Suddenly, she caught my eye and winked.

It was a predator's signal.

Then she reached out and "accidentally" knocked a glass from the tower.

It shattered with a crystalline crash that silenced the music.

She stumbled, landing hard on the shards.

A jagged piece of glass sliced deep into her forearm.

Blood sprayed over the white tablecloth, a violent bloom of red against the pristine setting.

Chaos erupted.

"Get the car!" Grafton roared, pressing a napkin to her arm to stanch the flow.

We sped to the Family hospital, tires screeching as we tore through the city.

The doctors were frantic the moment we burst through the doors.

"She's lost a lot of blood," Dr. Evans said, his voice tight with stress. "We need a transfusion immediately. But her blood type is AB Negative. We don't have enough in the bank."

Grafton drained of color. "Find it! I don't care who you have to bleed!"

"I'm AB Negative," I said, my voice cutting through the panic.

The room went quiet.

Grafton looked at me, his eyes unreadable.

"Do it," he said.

No 'please.' No 'thank you.'

Just a command.

I sat in the chair, rolling up my sleeve as the nurse hooked me up.

"Take two bags," I said.

"Miss Bass, you're already anemic," the nurse warned, glancing at my pale skin. "Two bags could put you in shock."

"Take it," I ordered.

I watched my blood flow through the tube, leaving me, going into her.

Into the woman who tormented me.

But the Code said the Don's woman must be protected, and I lived by the Code even if it killed me.

I passed out when the second bag was half full.

I woke up to the sensation of water filling my nose.

I was choking, burning.

I thrashed, realizing I was tied to a lounge chair.

I was by the penthouse pool.

Grafton was standing over me, holding a bucket.

He poured another bucket of water over my face.

I sputtered, gasping for air, my lungs screaming.

"Wake up," he growled.

"What..." I coughed, expelling water. "What is this?"

"The maid confessed," Grafton said, his voice devoid of humanity. "She said you paid her to poison the champagne glass. The one Cherrelle cut herself on."

"That's a lie," I gasped. "I gave her my blood!"

"Guilt," Grafton said coldly. "You realized you went too far."

He kicked the chair, sending it sliding toward the edge of the pool.

"Who are you working for? Is it the Triads? Or are you just a jealous psycho trying to kill your competition?"

"I am loyal!" I screamed, the injustice burning hotter than the water in my lungs.

He grabbed my hair and yanked my head back, forcing me to look at him.

"You are nothing. You are not an Associate anymore."

He leaned close, his eyes like black holes.

"From this moment, you are Cherrelle's personal servant. You will wash her clothes. You will clean her shoes. You will sleep on the floor at the foot of her bed if she asks."

He let go of my hair, shoving me back against the chair.

"If you try to leave, I will find your mother's grave and dig it up."

He knew exactly how to break me.

He knew I had no one left but the dead.

"Yes, Mr. Mcleod," I whispered, broken.

He walked away.

I lay by the pool, shivering, wet, and empty.

The five years were up.

But the debt, it seemed, was eternal.

Grafton Mcleod POV

I watched her lying there on the tiles, shivering in the aftermath.

She looked small. Broken.

For a second, a sharp pain twisted in my chest.

Why didn't she fight back?

Why did she just take it?

I looked at my hands. They were shaking.

I told myself it was rage.

I told myself she deserved it for what she tried to do to Cherrelle.

But deep down, in a place I refused to look, I wondered why the blood she gave Cherrelle looked so much like the blood Justen spilled the night he died.

Red.

Warm.

And wasted on me.