The invitation came in the form of a single white card slipped beneath her hotel room door.
No handwriting. No stamp. Just a message embossed in deep black ink: Midnight. Top floor. Wear red.
There was no signature. None was needed. Jaxon Morreau never repeated himself.
Raven held the card in her hand for a long time, her thumb brushing the edge like she could feel his voice in the weight of the paper. The last time she’d been summoned to the top floor, he’d broken something inside her she hadn’t known was still fragile, her belief in her own autonomy.
She hadn’t bled, but she hadn’t walked out the same, either.
Tonight, he wasn’t calling her for punishment. There was no lie to interrogate, no defiance to tame. Which meant this was something worse. Something intentional. Something pla
