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So possessive.

Stalker: You have no idea, Sunshine.

The car stops in front of the restaurant, the sun drifting away behind us. A few remaining rays wash the sidewalk and brick building in a bronze orange. The door opens, and the heaviness of the humidity dips in around me. It’s hot out, the air on fire. As I exit, I notice people sectioned off by a red rope. A few of them groan, and my brow furrows.

“We’re not like them,” Freddie murmurs next to me. “They’re envious we don’t have to wait like peasants.”

He might be thrilled with this revelation, but it sickens me. I don’t want to be better than other people. I want to be them, and enjoy my life with his—or Roman’s—control.

Soon.

Freddie adjusts his shirt and fixes his sunglasses. Opening his hand for me, I slip my small palm into his. My phone vibrates.

Stalker: Careful, Sunshine. I’m not in the mood to be tested.

Can he see? Too bad that’s exactly the mood I want him in.

There’s something empowering about knowing the effect I have on him. One photo drove him to his knees with need. Now, going out on a date with my fiancé is pushing his restraint. I want to know how far I can go before he cracks.

In my free hand, I respond.

Don’t wait up.

My phone turns to silent, and I lean into Freddie’s shoulder. Steeling my resolve, I smile at the crowd and allow him to lead me away. The idiota smiles like a princess being put on a pedestal. Freddie doesn’t want me—not me, personally—but what I represent. I’m a trophy, polished and pretty, and the rest of the crowd envies him for it, stroking his fragile male ego.

I don’t like it, but if it gets me what I want? Fine, use me. I’ll win in the end.

Going inside, the cool air chills my warmed cheeks. The restaurant is full of patrons, with dim lighting, burgundy walls, and swinging red lanterns overhead. The black café tables surround a dance floor, and couples have already started swaying.

At least, if the evening goes terribly, there’s always dancing.

With a hand on my back, Freddie directs us through the maze of people. At the back is a set of red velvet-covered stairs, and we ascend to the second floor. Up here, the music isn’t loud, and there are fewer people conversing over small tea candles. The café-style furniture is replaced with thick wooden tables and padded seats. It’s cozy, and fear clogs my throat.

Freddie pulls out my chair, looking anywhere but at me.

Ello catches my eye, retreating to the back wall, and that fear eases. He’s here if I need him.

Freddie takes the vacant chair on my left, and I perch my legs so he can’t touch me. The balcony is at my back, the entrance across from me. It’s secure, but leaves only one way in or out. Not ideal.

Carefully, I slide out my phone to lower the volume on my hearing devices—the music is causing a ridiculous, overwhelming sensation, and I see my missed messages.

There are a lot of them.

Stalker: Don’t ignore me.

Stalker: Sunshine.

Stalker: Did you put me on read?

Stalker. Valentina.

Stalker: Don’t play this game, baby. You won’t like what happens.

I smirk, adjust the volume, and replace my phone. More messages come in, and I ignore the lights. It’s fun being the one in control.

The server comes over, and before I can open my mouth, Freddie orders for us. I fucking hate when people do that. I’m not an invalid; I can make my own choices.

At my frown, he winks, picking up my hand and laying a sloppy kiss against my knuckles.