Tori
Nico’s car is as sleek and shiny as his lies. Leather seats, tinted windows, a faint scent of something expensive and poisonous—like cologne bottled just for men who enjoy ruining lives.
I sit stiffly in the passenger seat, my hands folded in my lap like some prim and proper trophy wife. The dress he forced on me is stunning, emerald green and hugging in all the right places, but it feels like a costume. Every inch of fabric is a reminder that I’m playing a part, one I didn’t audition for and sure as hell don’t want.
The silence stretches thin between us as we weave through the city streets, the hum of the engine doing little to calm the thundering in my chest. Then Nico finally speaks, his voice cold and low, like a blade sliding over ice.
“You understand what I expect from
