I turn to see a girl I recognize as Jackson Van der Smit’s wife. She’s a face I know well, considering how much Mercedes dislikes her. Young, innocent, and heavily pregnant. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth as my eyes settle on her belly. They haven’t even been married that long. It looks as though Jackson doesn’t waste any time. I can’t help but wonder when I will see my own wife heavy with my child. A thought that only serves to irritate me further.

"What do you need?" I demand.

She flinches at my tone, shrinking into herself and then squares her shoulders, seeming to rebound quickly with her primary motivation in mind.

"I was hoping I might speak to you a moment to request a visit with your wife. If you don't mind."

"My wife?" I growl.

I narrow my gaze at this girl who can’t be much younger than Ivy, but she looks much younger somehow. I don't know what she could possibly want to speak to her about.

"How do you know my wife?"

She hesitates to answer, and it only encourages my suspicions. Surely, she couldn't be the one who gave Ivy the poison. She is far too innocent for that. But I have been fooled by innocence before. Eli's innocent request for my family and me to attend that meeting in place of his changed my life irrevocably. If I have learned anything since then, it is that anyone can be a traitor.

"We spoke at the gala," the girl finally confesses. "I'm Colette. Jackson's wife."

"I know who you are," I answer coldly. "Why do you want to speak to my wife?"

"She said she'd like for us to visit sometime, and I just thought... I was hoping I could come visit her, considering the circumstances."

"No."

I slide into the back seat of the car, and Marco leans forward to shut the door when Colette offers me one last parting thought.

"She didn't do it. I know she couldn't have—"

The rest of her declaration is cut short when the car door shuts, sealing me in with my own turbulent thoughts. Colette is still standing on the sidewalk, hoping I'll reconsider as Marco drives us away.

15

Santiago

Ivy screams when I slam open the door to her room and startle her. The sound of the heavy wood crashing into the wall reverberates down the corridor as I stalk toward the chair where she's sitting, a horrified expression on her face.

"Santiago?"

When I don't respond, she rises up, trembling from the force of her fear. She knows what's coming. She can sense the predator in me. There is no more room for softness. There can't be. Never again.

"It's time."