THE INSPECTION

A bucket of icy water hit Grant’s face.

He jerked awake with a choked gasp. His head rolled forward, then snapped back as he tried to sit up. Nylon rope held his wrists and ankles wide against a tire from an old truck. He was stripped down to black underwear. The rest of his clothes had been folded and set on a metal workbench across the room.

His eyes moved from the ropes to the men gathered in the shadows.

There were fifteen of them. Their coats were dirty, their hair matted from weeks on the street, and their hands rough and cracked. They stood in a loose circle, watching him. None of them spoke. Their silence made Grant’s breathing turn ragged.

“Who are you?” he shouted. “Do you know who I am?”

No one answered.

“I’m Grant Whitmore. My family will destroy you. Get me out of this!”

A few of the men looked at each other. One rubbed his hands together. Another gave a short, humorless laugh.

Grant pulled hard against the ropes. They bit into his wrists.

I sat in an old chair near the far wall, my right hand set in a brace. A paper cup warmed my left palm. The coffee tasted burnt, but the heat helped steady me.

Grant saw me through the crowd. His face changed. Fury came first, then disbelief.

“Sloane?”

“You sound surprised.”

“You did this?” He tugged at the restraints again. “Untie me. Right now.”

I took a slow sip of coffee. “You’re making a lot of demands for someone who can’t stand up.”

“I’ll have your whole family arrested. This is kidnapping.”

“You were unconscious when you arrived. You haven’t been here long enough to know what I’ve arranged.”

He stared at the brace on my wrist. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Maybe. You should have thought of that before you shot me.”

“That was a game.”

“Riley tearing my clothes was a game, too. You explained that very clearly.”

“Those are not the same thing.”

“Why not?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. His eyes darted toward the men around him.

I set the coffee on the floor and stood. The shop was cold. An old heater ticked uselessly in the corner, and rain tapped the metal roof. I could still smell oil and mildew beneath the sour odor that clung to the room.

“You called me dramatic,” I said. “You said Riley was just joking. You watched your friends laugh at me, then told me to go home and call when I had calmed down.”

“Because you were making a scene.”

“No. I was asking you to stop her.”

His gaze dropped to the ropes. “You can’t do this. Let them go.”

“I paid them to keep their hands on you and make sure you understand what it feels like to be helpless while people inspect you.”

Grant shook his head. “Sloane, this is insane. Think about what happens tomorrow.”

“I have.”

I turned slightly toward the circle. The men waited for my instruction.

Grant twisted against the tire. “You can’t let them touch me.”

“Why not?” I asked. “They’re all men. What could they possibly do to you?”

He went still.

The line had landed exactly where I wanted. He remembered saying it. I watched him remember.

The men had been waiting in silence for several minutes. One of them had asked whether Grant would be allowed to call his family. I told him no—not until I said so. They were being paid to frighten him, not to injure him beyond what the encounter itself might cause. I repeated that boundary to Dante. He repeated it to the men.

I had rehearsed this conversation in the car and again outside the shop. Now that Grant was looking at me, the words sounded colder than they had in my head. I was not sure whether that made them easier to say or harder.

He had once asked me to trust him with every part of my future. He’d said our families’ agreement would give us a strong beginning, and that affection could come later. I had accepted that because it sounded practical. I had never imagined that one day he would be the person I needed protection from.

“You could still let me go,” Grant said.

“I could.”

“Then do it.”

“You never gave me that choice yesterday.”

His face tightened. I let him sit with the answer.

Dante remained by the door, watching the room and watching me. He would stop the scene the moment I asked. I knew that. I wanted Grant to know I was the one deciding when it ended.

I had told myself that I wanted him to understand, not that I wanted to watch him suffer. The distinction was thin, and I knew it. I did not look away when the first man stepped toward him.

I lifted my left hand and gave a small signal.

The men stepped closer.

Grant’s breath hitched. He began to pull at the restraints again, but the knots held. One of the men reached for his shoulder. Grant tried to turn away, and the man’s palm settled against him anyway.

“Don’t touch me!” Grant screamed. “Get away!”

No one stopped.

His voice broke into threats, then pleading. I stayed where I was, watching the smile vanish from the face that had sneered at me hours earlier. I heard the ropes strain. I heard him demand his father, his lawyers, his security team. None of them came.

The men followed my limits. They kept him restrained, touched and pulled at him, and made him feel exposed. They did not go further. Still, the hours passed slowly, and every time he thought it might be over, someone stepped close again.

I didn’t leave.

Near dawn, I stood and picked up my cup. The coffee had gone cold.

Grant’s face was pale. His voice had worn down to a rasp. When I walked toward him, his eyes filled with fear and hatred.

I let the words stay between us. I did not deny them or ask him to understand me. The shop smelled of wet metal and old oil. Somewhere behind me, a man cleared his throat. Dawn had arrived, but nothing about the night felt finished.

“You’re a monster,” he whispered.

I leaned close enough for him to hear me.

“Yesterday, you told me everyone was just having fun.”