A Psychological Game

LIV

Gia snatches the napkin right out of my trembling fingers before I can shove it into my apron pocket.

Her eyes dart across the slash-like black ink. She reads it once.

Then she reads it again.

"I fucking knew it," Gia breathes, her voice dropping into a venomous whisper.

Gia loves a disaster. Especially when it proves her right.

She looks up at me, her eyes wide and gleaming with vindication. "I knew it. I knew that golden-boy, Mr. Rogers routine was too good to be true. He’s fucking around."

"He's not," I snap, my voice cracking on the last word.

I snatch the napkin back and shove it deep into my pocket like it’s laced with poison.

I look around the café.

The conservative older couple already abandoned their cold teas and fled the second Gia dropped the F-bomb.

Good. I couldn't survive another minute of their quiet, judgmental glaring anyway.

The only customers left are two college kids packing up their laptops.

"I'm serious, Liv," Gia presses, following right on my heels as I abandon the register and march straight toward the glass front doors.

"What are you serious about?"

"I've always said there was something off about a guy whose hair never even moves in the wind. Nobody is that polished unless they’re hiding bodies… or a side piece. He is definitely fucking around."

"We’re closing!" I announce loudly to the room, cutting her off.

The college kids take the hint, slinging their backpacks over their shoulders and hurrying out the side exit.

The second the door shuts behind them, I grab the small plastic sign on the glass and aggressively flip it from OPEN to CLOSED. I throw the brass deadbolt with a loud, echoing clank.

Then I yank the window shades down, blocking out the streetlights.

Even with the shades drawn, the room feels too small. Like the glass walls are still letting that man's cold blue stare seep inside.

I grab Gia by the elbow and drag her through the swinging door into the cramped back inventory room.

The air in here smells of roasted espresso beans and hazelnut syrup. It smells like my boring, safe, perfectly predictable life.

I desperately need predictable right now.

"Liv, are you blind?" Gia demands, planting her hands on her hips. "A guy who looks like a cartel boss just walked in here and told you your fiancé—" She catches herself, rolling her eyes. "Oh wait, he hasn't proposed yet. My bad. Your soon-to-propose boyfriend is hiding a woman named Roxy. That doesn't just happen."

"Exactly. It doesn't just happen," I say, pacing the narrow aisle between stacked cardboard boxes.

"Which is why you should find it suspicious!"

I grab a clipboard off a metal shelf and start counting bottles of caramel syrup, purely to give my shaking hands something to do.

My writer's brain kicks in.

It’s a defense mechanism. If I can plot it, I can control it.

"What’s there to find suspicious about Ben?" I ask, tapping my pen against the clipboard. "Think about it, Gia. Logically. Ben is a sweet financial analyst who runs an indie publishing house. He doesn't have a secret life."

I stop pacing and look dead at her. "But you know who does play dirty?"

Gia stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. "Please don't say—"

"Apex Publishing," I say.

My brain moves a million miles a minute as I latch onto the only theory that doesn't end with my heart in a blender.

Motive. Opportunity. Execution.

"My contract is up in three months," I rush out. "They’ve been breathing down my neck, demanding I reveal my real identity to the press to boost sales. They know I want to leave. And they know Ben owns a competing house."

"Liv—"

"I met Ben the exact week I was having a breakdown over them. You know that, Gia!" I push on, my voice gaining strength. "He was my safe harbor because he didn't know who I was."

"I still don't buy that," Gia interrupts, crossing her arms. "The man runs a publishing company, Liv. You really think he didn't know what one of the bestselling erotic horror authors in the country actually looked like?"

"He didn't," I say fiercely. "Nobody knows what I look like. That's the whole point of a pen name. He fell for me. Boring, quiet Liv. And Apex knows that. They probably hired some intimidating actor to drop this note and mess with my head. They’re trying to isolate me so I don't jump ship to Ben's company. It’s a psychological game."

It makes perfect sense.

It has to.

Gia steps directly into my path, forcing me to stop pacing. She reaches out and taps the pocket of my apron where the napkin is hidden.

"Liv, your crusty, sixty-year-old publishers did not hire a guy to hand you an invite to VT."

I blink. "V-what?"

"Velvet Tears," Gia says slowly, pronouncing every syllable like she's explaining gravity to a toddler. "It’s not just some random bar, babe. It’s an underground casino and strip club."

"A strip club?"

"You heard that right." She crosses her arms. "And it’s exclusively for the top one percent. I had a guy at the lounge drop five grand on a bottle of tequila last month just to brag that he knew someone who got him past the door."

"Right. Okay. Still doesn't mean—"

"Liv, I'm serious. There are no signs. There are no windows. The bouncers wear custom tailored suits and carry actual firearms. You do not just walk in off the street. You have to be invited by the owner."

I swallow hard, the memory of scarred knuckles and a black metal credit card flashing through my head.

Invited by the owner.

"Sounds like a great place to get my organs harvested," I mutter, looking away.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

A literal lifeline. I pull it out with shaky hands.

Ben: I grabbed Thai food. Extra peanut sauce for my girl. On my way to the coffee shop now. See you in five. Love you.

I exhale a long, shaky breath and immediately shove the screen into Gia’s face. "Read it. Does that sound like a man hiding a secret woman named Roxy?"

Gia reads the text, her jaw tightening. She crosses her arms over her mesh top, looking genuinely conflicted.

"Fine. It sounds normal," she admits. "But Liv... if he's really innocent, then you have nothing to lose by going tonight and proving that psycho wrong."

"I am not going."

"Oh, come on! Did you not hear a word I just said about VT?"

"I heard you loud and clear, especially the part about armed bouncers."

"If that guy is casually telling you to meet him there at ten o'clock, he isn't a hired actor from your publishing house. He has serious, terrifying power."

"Which is exactly why I’m not going!" I argue, gripping the clipboard to my chest like a shield. "Why would I willingly walk into a mafia-style strip club? It’s a trap."

Three loud knocks rap against the metal of the back delivery door.

I jump, nearly dropping the clipboard. Gia tenses beside me.

"Liv? You in there?" Ben’s muffled, cheerful voice filters through the steel. "I tried the front, but you already flipped the sign."

Safe.

I sprint to the door and throw the deadbolt back.

Ben steps into the cramped inventory room, bringing a rush of crisp evening air with him. He’s wearing a tailored navy coat, his light brown hair neatly swept back. His warm hazel eyes crinkle at the corners, softening his sharp, politician-straight jawline.

In his hand is a white plastic bag that smells heavenly of pad thai and peanut sauce.

He smiles, dropping a warm, lingering kiss onto my forehead. "Hey, beautiful. Ready to go?"

"More than ready," I breathe, melting against the solid warmth of his chest.

I shoot a sharp, triumphant look over his shoulder at Gia.

See? Perfect. My future husband.

She rolls her eyes to the ceiling.

Ben pulls back and finally registers Gia standing by the syrup boxes.

He pauses, his eyes sweeping over her black mesh top and lace bralette for a fraction of a second before he lets out a loud, good-natured laugh.

"Jesus Christ, Gia, cover up, will you?" he teases, shaking his head. "There are health inspectors in this city."

Gia flashes him a razor-sharp smile. "As long as you've only got eyes on your girl, Benny, it shouldn't matter what I'm wearing. Right?"

Ben chuckles, completely unfazed. "Fair enough. Come on, Liv. Let's get you home."

He takes the clipboard gently out of my hands, sets it on the shelf, and laces his warm fingers through mine.

The napkin feels like it’s burning a hole straight through my apron. But as Ben leads me out through the back exit into the cool night air, I finally let my shoulders drop.

Gia is paranoid.

The guy in the corner booth was just a lunatic trying to get a rise out of me. Ben is my first love. He’s exactly who he says he is.

We reach his parked sedan in the quiet alleyway, and Ben clicks the fob, pulling the passenger door open for me.

"Oh, hold on," Ben murmurs, stopping right beside the open door.

He reaches inside his navy coat pocket.

My breath catches in my throat.

Wait. Is he doing it right now? Is he going to propose right now? In a random alleyway with a bag of Thai food?

Instead, a bright white light illuminates the fabric of his coat. A soft, generic ringtone fills the quiet alley.

Oh.

Just his phone.

He pulls it out. I’m standing right next to him, my hand resting on the top of the open car door.

Ben glances down at the screen.

For a fraction of a second, his warm, easy smile vanishes. It happened so fast I would have missed it if I wasn't staring directly at his face

His jaw locks.

His thumb hovers over the glass, and he hits the red Decline button.

"Just a spam risk," Ben says smoothly, his picture-perfect smile sliding right back into place as he slips the phone into his pocket. "Get in, babe. It's freezing."

He turns and walks around the hood toward the driver's side.

I don't move.

I stay frozen beside the open passenger door, the icy wind biting at my cheeks, my heart stopping dead in my chest.

Because I saw the screen.

It wasn't a spam risk.

In bright, glaring white letters across the caller ID, it read:

ROXY.