CHRISTIAN POV
I found myself in my favorite spot at Euphoria, slouched into the leather booth in the dimmest corner, on my fifth bottle of vodka for the night. Empty glass after empty glass sat in front of me like fallen soldiers, lined up as though mocking me for trying to drown the storm inside my head.
But the storm was too loud, too violent. Even the burn of the alcohol couldn’t smother it.
I tapped my finger against the table. Once. Twice. Over and over, the sound was sharp and grating against the bass humming in the background. I was waiting—waiting for the call, the confirmation from the man I had hired to run a check on the damn photo plastered all over the news.
It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.
It had to be edited. Conjured up by Adrian’s pathetic experts. A move straight
