Chapter 42

Dashiell paused outside the suite. His head throbbed like a bass drum solo, a hangover waiting to happen but never quite delivering. Half a dozen Negronis later, he was still swimming in icy sobriety. He gripped the key card, knuckles white. Would Selene be inside? His phone had blown up with missed calls and texts from her since he stormed out of City Hall that morning—no, that would be yesterday morning now. The anonymous texts had sent his world into a dizzying spin. He didn’t know what to think. But staying meant the risk of saying something he’d regret later, so, he’d fled. Then the visit to Sanctum, the swanky hospital with its equally swanky director, confirmed his worst fear: Selene had lied. She’d paid for a fake diagnosis, a twisted manipulation meant to speed up their wedding march. But why? They were already engaged, for crying out loud! Granted, the engagement had been prompted by Selene’s hopeful looks, carefully dropped hints and strategic guilt trips more than any burni