Page 52 of Candy Cane Chains

My hands shake as I grip the edge of the counter. She was here, making my favorites, planning to surprise me. The care in every detail - the gold dust she knows I secretly love, the sea salt that reminds me of childhood summers, the flowers she spent weeks learning to crystallize just right.

And that fucking waste of oxygen Travis Porter had to ruin it all.

The bowl shatters against the wall before I realize I've thrown it. Chocolate splatters across the pristine white paint like blood. I force my breathing to slow, watching the dark streaks drip down to the floor. This rage won't help find her. Won't help keep her safe.

But later... Later it will serve its purpose.

I take the elevator down to the subfloor, each step measured despite the storm building inside me. My palm presses against the hidden biometric panel, and reinforced steel doors slide open with a whisper.

Cold air hits my face as I step into my sanctuary. Gun oil and metal fill my lungs - familiar, grounding scents that clear my head. Motion sensors trigger, washing the room in stark white light that gleams off rack after rack of pristine weapons.

I shed my suit jacket, rolling up my sleeves with mechanical precision. Scars are exposed as I do, lacing through tattoos along my forearms. I might be rich, but I only am because I'm a trained killer. I can't wait to see how the trust fund kid does against me.

My fingers trail over the weapon racks, touching each piece like old friends. The Sig P320 comes first - my daily companion, already loaded with hollow points. Then the ceramic knife that slips between my shoulder blades, perfectly balanced. A second blade straps to my ankle, this one serrated.

The far wall holds my special collection. Rare pieces, modified hardware, things that don't officially exist. Things that leave no trace. My hand hovers over several options before selecting a matte black case. Inside, a custom Glock 19 nestles in foam padding. No serial number. No records. Perfect for tonight.

I check each weapon methodically, muscle memory taking over. Magazine capacity. Action. Sights. Everything must be perfect. There's no room for error when it comes to protecting what's mine.

The weight of each piece settles against my body like armor. With each addition, the rage crystallizes further, turning to diamond-hard purpose. I've spent years building my reputation, cultivating fear through careful control and measured responses. Playing the civilized businessman who occasionally gets his hands dirty.

That ends tonight.

I slot spare magazines into my belt as my phone stays silent. Xander will call soon. Until then, I have time to prepare. Time to remember exactly who and what I am beneath the expensive suits and polite smiles.

The last piece slides into place - a garrote wire so thin it's nearly invisible, coiled in my breast pocket. An insurance policy. A promise.

I am done playing fucking nice.

27

IVY

The brick wall scrapes against my back as Travis crowds me into the alley behind Gibson's. His cologne - too strong, too sweet - chokes the crisp winter air. I should've stayed in the car but I was foolish, thinking we could talk this out. It never was going to be that easy.

"You need to come home with me, Ivy. Right now." His words have an edge to them I didn't expect.

"I already told you no. I'm with someone else. The only reason I came here was to tell you that it is over, to leave me alone." I try to step around him, wanting to go back home, but he slams his palm against the wall by my head.

"That rich prick? You think I haven't seen you with him?" Travis's boyish features twist, green eyes flashing with an ugliness I've never seen before. "Three weeks. You've been letting him parade you around like some trophy."

My stomach drops. "You've been following me?"

"Had to make sure you weren't doing anything stupid." He leans closer, alcohol heavy on his breath. "But look at you now. All dressed up in that tight little dress. Batting your eyes at him like some high-class whore."

"Get away from me." I press my hands against his chest, but he barely moves.

"I've watched you go into his building. Seen you in his fancy car." His fingers dig into my arm. "What, my Mercedes wasn't good enough? Had to spread your legs for his Bentley instead?" His eyes flick behind me. "And the Aston Martin, too. At least you're a whore with taste."

"You're crazy." My voice shakes despite my effort to stay calm. I'm pretty sure he really is coked out, too, like Julian had mentioned . How did I never see that before? "We are over. We should have been over a long time ago. You don't get to?—"

"Don't get to what? Care that some rich bastard's corrupting you?" His face reddens. "The Ivy I knew would never act like this. Never dress like this. He's turned you into something you're not."

"The Ivy you knew was miserable." I wrench my arm free. "And you didn't even notice."

"Because you were perfect before him!" Travis's fist crashes into the wall inches from my face. "Sweet little Ivy. Always so proper. So predictable. Until he got his hooks in you."

Spittle flies from his mouth as he rants. "I've seen how he looks at you. Like you're his property. And you just eat it up, don't you? Let him buy you things. Take you to fancy restaurants. Tell me, does he make you call him 'sir' when he?—"