CHAPTER 172 — GUEST ROOM, MIDNIGHTThe drive was quiet in a way Joyce hadn’t expected.No radio. No pointless conversation. Just the low hum of the engine and the soft sweep of windshield wipers as a light drizzle began to fall sometime after they left the bar. City lights blurred past the tinted windows, stretching into streaks of red and white that melted together the longer she stared.Joyce leaned her head against the cool glass, coat pulled tight around her body. The tequila had settled into a warm, heavy haze—enough to dull the sharp edges of the night, not enough to knock her out. Her thoughts felt slower now, less jagged. Less painful.Patrick sat beside her, not too close. One arm rested against the door, his gaze fixed on the road ahead, like he was deliberately giving her space. Not filling the silence. Not pushing.She glanced at him once, quietly.His profile was sharp in the passing lights—jaw set, brows drawn just enough to suggest he wasn’t as relaxed as he pretended t

CHAPTER 174 — NO TURNING BACKPatrick’s words hit the air like a match struck in the dark.“Give me that pussy.”Joyce’s breath caught—sharp, audible. Her eyes locked on his, wide and dark, pupils blown. For a second neither moved. The room felt smaller, hotter, the low lamp casting shadows that danced across his face, across the hard line of his shoulders.Then she smiled.Slow. Wicked. A little drunk on tequila and adrenaline and the way he was looking at her like she was the only thing in the world worth wrecking everything for.She pushed up on her knees, dress riding higher on her thighs, and reached for his belt.Patrick’s hand caught her wrist—not stopping, just holding. His thumb brushed over her pulse point, feeling how fast it raced.“You sure?” he asked, voice gravel-rough, eyes searching hers.Joyce leaned in until her lips brushed his ear. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”That was all he needed.He let go of her wrist and she went to work—fingers quick on his belt

CHAPTER 176 — MORNING AFTER MESSJoyce woke up to sunlight stabbing through the half-open blinds like it had a personal grudge.Her head throbbed—dull, insistent, the kind of hangover that whispered you made bad choices. She blinked against the light, groaning low, and froze the second everything came rushing back.Warm skin against her back.
Heavy arm draped over her waist.
The faint, familiar scent of cedar and sex and Patrick Tillman.Oh God.She was naked. Completely naked. Tangled in dark sheets that definitely weren’t hers, in a bed that was way too big, in a room that screamed money but not showy. Her dress was a crumpled silver heap on the floor. Panties nowhere in sight. Bra hanging off the corner of a chair like it had been flung there in a hurry.And Patrick—her nemesis, the arrogant prick she’d spent years hating—was spooned behind her, breathing slow and even, hand splayed possessively across her stomach.Joyce’s heart slammed against her ribs.No. No no no.This wasn’t a

CHAPTER 178 — PREFERABLE MISTAKES Joyce stared at the tablet like it might bite her. The photo was worse up close—her face half-hidden by messy hair, dress obviously the same one from the gala, boots dangling from her fingers like evidence. Every detail felt magnified, every shadow and crease in the fabric, every stray hair, every smudge on her makeup. The headline screamed in bold caps, the kind that made strangers feel entitled to her life, her choices, her very existence.She swallowed hard, arms crossing tight over her chest, trying to shield herself from the reality glowing in front of her. “It’s just gossip,” she murmured, almost to convince herself.Her mother’s laugh cut through her, sharp and humorless. It wasn’t amused—it was the kind of laugh that carried danger, precision, judgment. She stepped further into the room, heels clicking against the hardwood like gunfire. “Just gossip? Joyce, this is everywhere. Page Six, Instagram stories, even the finance forums are picking i

CHAPTER 180 — FRACTURED LINESThe room felt like it was holding its breath.Mr. Arizona’s grip on Joyce’s shoulder was firm, almost bruising, keeping her rooted in place even though every muscle in her body screamed to lunge forward again. Lola stood a few feet away, chest heaving, mascara smudged into dark streaks down her flushed cheeks. Her silk camisole was twisted, one strap hanging loose, and her perfectly blown-out hair now looked like she’d been dragged through a wind tunnel.Joyce’s cheek burned where Lola’s palm had connected. She could taste blood where she’d bitten the inside of her lip. Her arm stung from the nail scratches—three angry red lines already rising on her skin.Their father’s eyes moved slowly between them, dark and unreadable. The silence stretched so tight it felt like it could snap.Then he spoke again, voice low and controlled, the kind of tone that made boardrooms fall silent. “Lola.”Just her name. Nothing else.Lola’s bottom lip trembled. She swiped at