Alina’s POV
The car my father sent was a black sedan—sleek, expensive, anonymous. The kind of vehicle that screamed money and power while remaining completely forgettable. The driver didn’t speak to me, just took my bag and opened the back door with a practiced motion.
I climbed in, and the door closed with a soft, final thunk that sounded like a coffin lid.
The drive to my father’s penthouse took twenty minutes through mostly empty streets. I watched the city scroll past the tinted windows—neon signs bleeding into darkness, late-night crawlers stumbling home from bars, the glittering skyline that used to represent freedom and possibility. Now it just looked like a cage with prettier bars.
My phone buzzed constantly. Texts from all three of them, increasing in desperation:
Jaxon: Don’
