Elijah Vega.
I’m at the pinnacle of the VIP floor, half-draped across the couch with a cloud of smoke permeating from my lips. My phone’s screen is glowing with a picture of Paloma. It’s one Rebekah took at the gala where Paloma is caught mid-laugh, shoulders bare, lips parted just enough to haunt a monster. She doesn't even know what she does to me. Her laughter is small, like bells kept in silk, her voice and those eyes—
She’s the kind of beautiful that makes men stupid. I should know. I’ve become one of them.
I scroll through our messages again, because I’m a glutton for torture. Can’t risk calling her, not now. Enid has smelled the smoke. Therefore, he’s already circling, ready to burn whatever warmth I’ve built. He’s the kind of man who tracks phones, reads deleted messages, and te
