Page 31 of Over the Edge

But I didn’t move.

Because if I let him matter—if I letthismatter—I’d lose the edge I needed to survive what came next.

So I did what I always did. I put on the mask.

I turned back to the mirror and reached for my lipstick.

He didn’t answer, but I could feel him watching me as I applied the red, my favorite shade. The one that always looked like war paint.

“You don’t have to prove anything to them,” he said quietly. “Not to Ethan. Not to anyone.”

I capped the lipstick with a click and forced a bright smile into my voice. “Thanks for the pep talk, but I’ve got this.”

I grabbed my clutch, my confidence, and what was left of my composure, and walked toward the door.

Flynn didn’t try to stop me.

And I didn’t turn back.

Because if I looked at him now, I wouldn’t go.

And failure wasn’t an option.

CHAPTER10

LYRIC

The restaurant wasthe kind of place where secrets were bought and sold over five-course meals. The private dining room oozed opulence—low candlelight, crystal stemware, a sweeping view of the Monaco skyline glittering beyond floor-to-ceiling windows. A setting designed to flatter a woman into forgetting her place in the social hierarchy.

I wasn’t flattered.

And I was sick of men thinking they owned me. Moreau. Ethan. Even Flynn.

Especially Flynn.

His voice still echoed in my head—“I want to. God help me, I fucking want to.”

He had no right to that possessiveness. No claim on my decisions. I wasn’t a damsel in distress. I was the damsel whocauseddistress.

Moreau was already seated when I arrived, lounging with the lazy arrogance of a man who had never heard the wordnoand wouldn’t recognize it if it slapped him. His suit was midnight blue and molded to him like a second skin. The cut of the fabric, the glint of the watch beneath his cuff, the way he swirled his wine glass—it was all curated. A masterclass in power projection.

Power he expected me to acknowledge.

I didn’t.

Instead, I stepped into the room like I owned it, let the maître d’ pull out my chair, and sat without waiting for Moreau’s approval.

“Elisa,” he purred. “You look stunning.”

I smiled. “I know.”

His chuckle was low, indulgent, like I’d performed for him. “And I see you left your guard dog behind.”

“Colt Mercer isn’t my guard dog,” I replied, setting my clutch on the table. “He is a highly trained security specialist and my lover. He wasn’t happy about being left behind.”

Moreau’s eyes sharpened, his amusement suddenly edged with something darker. “Ah. So that’s the arrangement.”

“There is no arrangement. Just mutual satisfaction.”

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