Page 4 of Punish Me, Daddy

I locked my phone and slipped it into my bag like it wasn’t already burning a hole through the bottom.

Georgia was still going on about someone’s divorce scandal and Maya was halfway through pouring us all another round of overpriced rosé, but my head was somewhere else completely.

I wasn’t thinking about the party or the gossip or the boy who’d just sent me a blurry selfie two minutes too late.

I was already thinking about tomorrow night.

About blood. About something that sent my pulse going pitter-patter. About something thatmattered.

I didn’t say a word on the ride home. Just watched the city flicker by, streetlights smearing gold across the windows, buildings pressing in like they knew I was up to something.

The second I got back to the house, I did what I always do when I’m plotting trouble; I kicked off my heels, padded barefoot into my closet, and stared at the clothes like they were intricate chess pieces about to be moved around on a game board in the middle of one of the most important matches of all time.

Because if I was doing this—really doing this—I had to look the part. No designer names. No red-carpet elegance. No ‘mayor’s daughter’ perfect polish.

I needed something darker. Grittier. Something that saidI don’t belong here, but I dare you to try to stop me.

I grabbed my black slip dress, the one that clung in all the wrong ways and still made me feel dangerous. Then I added my leather jacket, the vintage one that smelled faintly of smoke and beer. I hadn’t worn it since I climbed out of a hotel window in Paris and stole a Vespa just to see if I could. Spoiler alert: I totally could.

Fond memories…

A pair of ripped fishnets went onto the pile. And my Docs. Laced to the top, scuffed just right.

Grunge makeup? That would come tomorrow night. Thick black liner. Smudged shadow. Burgundy lipstick sharp enough to cut glass. I could already picture it.

When I finally looked in the mirror, dress slung over one arm, jacket over the other, I grinned at my reflection.

I didn’t look like trouble; I looked like Iwantedit.

I slipped everything into a duffel bag and shoved it under my bed. Then I sat down, pulled out my phone, and opened a new note.

Fight Night Prep:

Cash (all hundreds, no cards)

Switchblade (purse or boot?)

Fake ID (use the New York one—she looks tougher)

Black eyeliner / burgundy lipstick

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