“He made me think he loved me and then ghosted me,” I said. “As part of a bet.”

I could physically feel the silence between us.

“Come up here.” His cool voice drifted through the dark.

I know I shouldn’t. I’m falling harder than I ever did with West, and the crash would obliterate me. There won’t be enough tape in the world to piece me back together.

“Snitch—”

“I can’t come up there,” I whispered. “I can’t do it. I can’t wake up in the morning and go back to being nothing.”

The thunderous roar of waves amplified the silence. I figured he had dropped the matter, and I let my vision blur in the glimmering crystals of his art deco chandelier above.

Then he spoke. “I can’t wake up tomorrow and not smell you in my sheets, Snitch.”

My breath caught.

Silently, I crawled up, making sure to stay on top of the sheets.

This thing between us in the dark was more dangerous than anything that he did to me in the light. These moments we snuck in the dark felt like our little secrets from reality. I studied him, shirtless, arms folded behind his neck, making his biceps and triceps pop.

“Something on your mind, Snitch?” He slowly turned to me, a look in his eyes that said he knew I’d been watching.

This time, I didn’t look away.

“I was wondering the same,” I whispered.

His brow furrowed, but he said nothing.

“Did you always dream of being the CEO of Crowne Industries?” I asked.

Grayson laughed bitterly. “Did you always dream of being a servant?”

My heart pinched. “You can do anything. It’s not the same.”

He rolled his neck, staring back at the ceiling. “I’ve been working at Crowne Industries for as long as I can remember. For my seventh birthday, Grandpa had me fire an employee before their forty-year anniversary, to teach me about the importance of losing deadweight. On my thirteenth birthday, Grandpa wouldn’t let me go to bed until I’d secured the votes for a hostile takeover. From the time I was seventeen, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s were all dedicated to the Crowne.”

He said it without any emotion, and that made it so much sadder to me.

I scooted closer, entranced. Until I could see how his knuckles were abraded—blood had crusted on the back of his hand.

From when he’d punched someone.

For me.

“What did you want to do?” I said quietly. “Before you had no choice?”

“Too young to remember.” He turned his head, blue eyes catching mine. “What about you, Snitch?”

“I wanted to be a poet,” I said. “I wanted to be remembered. I wanted to have a voice. I wanted to be seen.”