My parents forced me to cook and clean all weekend for my sister’s party with 50 guests.

Mom followed me onto the porch, her face flushed red. “If you leave now, don’t bother coming back.”

I looked at her for a long second. “That was the first generous thing you’ve said all weekend.”

Then I left.

In my car, I sat for five minutes, gripping the steering wheel. I did not cry. I did not scream. I made one phone call.

One hour later, my phone rang. Madison.

When I answered, she was sobbing.

“Emily,” she choked. “Who did you call? Mom just saw him and—oh my god, she’s—”

The call filled with shouting.

Then it cut off.

PART 2
I stared at my phone as the screen faded back to black.

For three seconds, I thought about calling Madison back. Then I remembered her smirk from the kitchen island, the way she had watched me scrub and sweat like I was furniture that had somehow learned to breathe.

Instead, I started my car.

The man I had called was Victor Hale.

He was not a gangster, a police officer, or some mysterious former lover. He was my boss.

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