Page 172 of The Contract

It’s a phone number every Ledger Companion has to memorize. A number I’ve never had to use before, and I work to compose myself.

Eve and I were at The Ledger when a girl called in a Code Red-One before. Several years ago. They brought her back on a stretcher. She was in a coma for a week.

I take a steadying breath.

It’s the line of last resort.

The line we call when we need an emergency bailout. When something has gone very wrong. When we’re in danger.

The line stops ringing. No one says anything. They aren’t supposed to, but I know someone is listening, and I close my eyes tight.

“This is Companion 7446.” I swallow hard. “Code Red-One. Location is 929 Wolfe Avenue. Penthouse.”

The woman furrows her brow, but I hang up the phone and walk to the elevator.

One foot and then the next, I push my shoulders back and walk away.

The security guard’s boots thump just behind me as he follows, his presence a looming wall of dread that sinks to the pit of my stomach like a stone.

As I step back into the elevator and turn, facing the city skyline, I send a prayer up to the universe.

To anything that could be listening.

Please.

Please fucking help me save this.

“Is the trace still up on Adrian’s phone?” I barely recognize my voice.

There is a pause, and I immediately know they lost him.

This day just keeps getting better and fucking better.

“He turned his phone off about an hour ago. Just after the ping came up near the Blackstone.”

So, what? Where did they go from there?

My penthouse? Did she take him up to my fucking home? To let him fuck her everywhere I just did last night? This morning?

My blood is nearly boiling, and I can’t stop my haggard breathing.

Marcus is still talking, his voice steady, rational—trying to keep me grounded, but there’s no steadying me now.

“Damien, listen to me. Maybe it doesn’t look like what you think.”

I turn to him, my glare sharp, cutting. He knows as well as I do—it’s all right here. The pictures, the fucking video, the evidence staring me in the face.

I rake a hand through my hair, trying to shove down the rage clawing up my throat. My chest feels tight, my skin hot with the kind of fury I haven’t tasted in a long, long time.

“You can see it with your own goddamn eyes, Marcus,” I bite out. “She’s been fucking him. Or working with him to fuck me over. Either way, this wasn’t an accident.”

Marcus exhales, rubbing his jaw, his expression unreadable. “Then call her.”

I scoff. “What?”

“Ask her yourself.” His voice is even, calculated. “Call her. Maybe there’s another explanation.”

I don’t believe there’s another explanation. What else could there be?

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