Vivian Hartley's POV

My fiancé butt-dialed me in the middle of sex.

With my best friend.

I almost cried. Happy tears.

"Silas, stop. What if Vivian finds out?"

That was Natalie. Soft, breathless, sweet as candy.

"Vivian?" Silas Blackwell laughed. "She's too boring to notice anything."

I pressed the phone to my ear and tried not to grin.

I was alone at a bar, nursing a club soda. My engagement party was in twelve hours. For two months, I'd been hunting for a way out of this marriage. I had found nothing.

Now this.

"Promise me you won't touch her after the wedding," Natalie whispered.

"Please. Have you seen her face? I'd rather kiss a wall."

Natalie giggled. "You're so bad."

I knew that giggle. Twelve years of sleepovers. She had never sounded that happy at my birthday.

I hit record.

Then the giggling stopped. A pause. Some rustling.

"Silas," Natalie whispered. "Your phone. The call is still on."

It was a terrible whisper. I heard every word.

Silence. Then Silas laughed, low and nasty. "Oh, is it?"

I didn't breathe.

"Hey, Vivian. You there?"

I said nothing.

"Good. Listen up. You might learn something."

And then Natalie started to moan.

Loud. Really loud. "Oh, Silas! Yes! Right there!"

It was the worst acting I'd ever heard. Natalie got cast as a tree in every school play. Now I knew why.

"Hear that, Viv?" Silas said, out of breath. "That's what a real woman sounds like."

"Silas, that's so mean," Natalie said, giggling. "Poor Vivian."

They wanted me to cry. They were going to be so disappointed.

I laughed out loud. The bartender took a step back.

"Thanks, guys," I whispered.

They were trying to hurt me. Instead, they were handing me evidence. More every second. It was like my opponent gave me the controller and left to get a snack.

I let it run until they hung up. I saved the file in three places. Then I made myself think.

A recording wasn't enough. Our fathers would say "boys will be boys" and move the wedding up. I needed something bigger.

Someone bigger.

That's when I saw him.

He sat at the far end of the bar, half in shadow. His jacket was on the stool next to him. His sleeves were rolled up. Dark prayer beads circled one wrist.

Nobody talked to him. Nobody even looked at him. Everyone stayed about six feet away.

For two weeks, I'd been stalking the Blackwell family tree like it owed me money. There were exactly three photos of this guy online. In one of them, he was standing next to Cyrus Blackwell, and Cyrus looked like he'd just been called to the principal's office.

I had no idea what he was to Silas. A cousin? A half-brother? The family secret nobody brought up at Thanksgiving? All I knew was that in every photo, everyone stood up straighter when he was around.

The smart move was to research him properly first. But the party was in twelve hours. Smart was off the table.

I slid off my stool and walked over.

"Anyone sitting here?"

He didn't look up. "Yes."

I looked at the empty stool. "Imaginary friend?"

"Someone who's about to leave." Now he looked up. Dark eyes, steady, completely unimpressed. There was something about his brow that felt weirdly familiar, and I shoved the thought away. "You."

I sat down anyway.

I knew what he was seeing: plain face, boring hair, blazer from the clearance rack. Zero threat. That was the whole idea. Guys' eyes usually slid right off me.

His didn't.

"I need a favor," I said.

"No."

"You haven't heard it."

"I've heard a hundred versions. The answer's no."

"It's not that kind of favor. It's a bad decision, and it's going to be a short one." I nodded at the beads. "Do those work?"

"Not for you."

"Shame. I'm about to need a lot of forgiveness."

I touched one bead with my fingertip. He went very still.

"One night," I said. "No names, no follow-up. You'll never see me again."

"I don't do that."

"Neither do I. Let's be bad at it together."

He stared at me for a long moment. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

"You've been drinking."