The phone comes in a sleek black box, delivered by a guy in a suit who doesn’t smile or say a word. I find it waiting for me on the nightstand when I drag myself out of bed, the morning sun casting pale gold over the velvet box like it’s some cursed treasure.
iPhone 16 Pro Max. Latest model. Probably maxed out with every app, every update, every thing I didn’t ask for.
A note rests on top, written in that sharp, slanted script I’ve started recognizing in my sleep.
“Now you don’t have an excuse not to text me. – D”
I stare at it for a solid minute. Then flip it over and toss it onto the bed.
Cute.
But not enough.
I find Dario in the kitchen that afternoon, shirt sleeves rolled up, stirring something in a pot like he’s not the reason I’m being held here like a criminal. He doesn’t loo
