His Fake Love, My Real Heart

Chapter 17— The Race

The moment Alex said the words, my heart slammed against my ribs so hard it hurt.

I didn’t remember grabbing my coat. I barely remembered moving at all — just the sound of Alex’s voice, sharp and controlled, giving someone on the other end of the phone an address, an order.

By the time we hit the elevator, my hands were shaking so badly I had to clench them into fists.

“Alex—”

“Don’t,” he cut in, eyes fixed on the lit floor numbers above us. “Save it for when we see her.”

The elevator doors opened and we were moving — across the lobby, through the sharp bite of night air, into the black SUV parked at the curb.

The city blurred past in streaks of light and shadow. I kept checking my phone, like Jenna might magically text me and make all of this a false alarm.

She didn’t.

Alex’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “If he’s touched her—” He stopped, jaw locking.

I didn’t need him to finish the sentence.

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By the time we pulled up to Jenna’s building, my chest felt tight enough to split. The street was too quiet. A single streetlamp flickered above the entrance.

Alex got out first, scanning the sidewalk with a soldier’s precision. “Stay behind me.”

I wanted to argue, but one look at his face told me it would be useless.

We climbed the steps two at a time. The building door was propped open, just enough to make my stomach twist.

Inside, the hallway smelled faintly of paint and something metallic. My heels clicked too loud against the tiles.

Halfway up the stairs, I heard it — the muffled slam of a door somewhere above us.

Alex froze, listening. Then he moved, faster now.

When we reached Jenna’s floor, her door was closed. Too closed.

I knocked. “Jenna? It’s me—”

The lock clicked. The door swung open just enough for me to see her face — wide-eyed, pale, and not alone.

Because behind her, leaning casually against the wall like he owned the place, was Daniel.

And he was smiling.