The sun streamed in through the windows, stencilling the carpet with happiness I didn’t feel.

I was cold. Aching. Confused.

Once again, my fingers returned to the bruise on my arm. I flinched remembering the pain of the needle piercing my flesh. The skin still stung from the contraceptive as if he’d only just done it—not a few hours ago.

How could he do that?

How could he obey Cut and dismiss me from his heart?

He’d shattered my dreams so damn quickly.

Why oh why did I come back here?

You know why.

To save Jethro, kill the Hawk bastards, and end this.

George’s eyes darted around the lounge. Jethro and I rested on a loveseat with silver swans gilded on white satin. Purple velvet-flocked chairs encircled the seating area, lending a richness to the oriental charm of the day parlour.

The décor was feminine with its intricate jewelled music boxes enclosed in glass-domed cases and ancient grandfather clocks chiming the hour. I would’ve liked to relax in this room and I guessed Jasmine used it, too—judging by the faint wheel marks in the thick lavender carpet.

I was tired. Terribly tired.

For three months, my life had been anything but normal and I needed to rest. I needed to stop and get my bearings, because I no longer knew where I was. I thought I understood Jethro.

How wrong was I?

A vertigo wave danced in my brain. I moaned, pressing my fingertips against my temples.

Jethro inched closer, resting his cool hand on my thigh.

My skin reacted instantly, craving him, seeking more. I cursed myself for reacting that way. It took everything in me not to shove him away and sprint from the room.

What a traitor.

What a bastard.

“Ms. Weaver, you don’t look entirely well.” George looked at his wristwatch. “We can postpone for an hour or so if you wish. To rest?”

“No.” Jethro’s eyes locked on George’s. “She’ll be fine.” His fingers tightened on my knee, biting uncomfortably. “Won’t you, Nila?”

Once upon a time, my heart would’ve fluttered if he used my first name. Now, it tore off those wings and plummeted to hell.

Leaning into me, Jethro whispered in my ear, “You know what’s expected of you. Behave and everything will remain cordial, got it?” Pulling away, he put on a show for the reporters. “I’m so worried about you, darling. For days, you’ve been saying how excited you are to reveal the truth to the world. You don’t want to ruin your chance now, do you?”

George clapped his hands. “Yes, please don’t let us down, Ms. Weaver. We are so excited to hear your tale.” He picked up an expensive camera with a zoom lens. “If you feel restricted sitting down, we could always conduct the questions by the window over there. Be a great spot for some pictures.”

“Oh, yes,” Sylvie said. “It would be such a romantic shot with the two of you. Our readers would love it.”

Another vertigo spell teased my vision. I didn’t trust my legs to stand and shook my head. “Perhaps in a little bit. I’m happy to answer whatever you want here.” I stretched my face into a smile, but it felt heavy, sad, fake.

George and Sylvie didn’t notice.

But of course, Jethro did. Pinching my knee again, Jethro cleared his throat. “My apologies. My love has been rather overworked the past few weeks.” He leaned forward with a conspirer’s smile. “She went home to her family, you see. A bit of a disaster—as you might’ve heard.”

Sylvie giggled, completely buying the lies Jethro spilled. “We did hear a rumour or two.”

His commanding fingers stroked my thigh, looking like a caress but feeling like a punishment. “Those rumours were started to thwart our love. Her family doesn’t approve of mine. They think she can do better than me and never approved—even though we were born for each other.”

My heart thudded to a stop. The words could’ve been so perfect. So full of promise. Instead, they reeked with deceit and dripped with lies.

We were born for each other, that’s true. But only for him to kill me in his quest for whatever Cut promised.

I sank further into the loveseat, wishing the swans on the fabric would come alive and fly me away from there. I missed the sanctuary of the Weaver quarters. After the awful injection, Jethro had left me to reacquaint myself with the space. I’d showered and tried not to cry over my gullible heart or naïve hopes smashing to dust in the face of Jethro's new behaviour.

I’d dressed in a blood-red A-line skirt that I’d made while here previously and shrugged into a slouchy jumper with a rose hand-stitched on the front. I hadn’t bothered with makeup or my hair. The damp strands hung down my back adding to the chill in my soul that I doubted would ever thaw.

Sitting beside Jethro in his immaculate attire, I truly did feel sick. Dying cell by cell until I would be nothing but a corpse.

“Sounds like an awful predicament to love a man your family doesn’t approve of, Ms. Weaver,” George prompted.

This is it then.

The interview had officially begun.

Placing my hands in my lap, I struggled to think up an approved reply. When Cut came to collect me for the reporters, he’d given me strict instructions:

“Act heartbroken but happy. Paint your family as the bad guys and us as the victims. Make the Hawks shine, Ms. Weaver, or else.”

I’m so sorry, Vaughn.

After everything he’d done to save me, I was about to undo it all with a few awful sentences.