THEY TURNED ON EACH OTHER

Grant’s voice came back before his strength did.

“You did this to me because of her,” he said.

I was standing beside the workbench. “I did this because of you.”

“You were supposed to be my wife.”

“That was the plan our families made. It wasn’t a promise I had to keep after you shot me.”

His eyes moved to Riley. “You shouldn’t have started it.”

She stared at him. “You told me to have fun.”

“I didn’t tell you to rip her clothes.”

“You were laughing.”

“I didn’t know you were going to do that.”

“You watched the whole thing.”

“I was trying to keep you out of trouble.”

The excuse came out too quickly. Riley’s tears stopped. She looked at him with an expression I had never seen on her face before: not admiration, not jealousy, but doubt.

“You’re blaming me?” she said.

“Look at me.” Grant tugged against the ropes. “You’re the reason she did this.”

“I didn’t make her bring you here.”

“You pushed her yesterday. You had to make a show of it.”

I had never heard her sound uncertain around him. She usually treated every room as a stage she could command. She teased him, shoved him, stole his drinks, and called him names he would never accept from anyone else. He let her do it because he liked how it looked: the heir and his fearless best friend, bound by a friendship no one else could question.

That performance had lasted as long as Grant stayed in control. Once he was frightened, the arrangement changed. He wanted Riley to protect him, but he also wanted her to pretend she had not seen him helpless. He wanted her loyalty without having to offer her respect.

“You told me I was the only one who could get away with anything,” Riley said.

“I said a lot of things.”

“You said I was family.”

“I was trying to keep you around.”

She stared at him. He had not meant to say that aloud. Even Connor looked down at the floor.

Riley’s expression emptied. The attention she had mistaken for affection had always been a resource Grant spent when he wanted her to stay.

She looked at me, then at the men holding her. “You’re telling them all this so they’ll hate me.” “They can decide what they think.” “You want to take him from me.” “I don’t want him.” Grant gave a bitter laugh from the tire. “That’s the first honest thing she’s said.”

Riley’s voice wavered. “I thought you were on my side.”

“I’m tied to a tire because of you.”

“You’re tied to a tire because Sloane is crazy.”

“I wouldn’t be here if you’d kept your hands to yourself.”

The room went quiet. Even Connor stopped shifting his weight. Grant had spent years letting Riley believe their closeness meant something. He had depended on her devotion and used it whenever he wanted an audience. Now that she could see him helpless, he treated her like a liability.

Riley looked from him to me. Her eyes were swollen, and a strand of hair stuck to her wet cheek.

“He’s not worth this,” I said.

“Don’t pretend you care about me.”

“I don’t.”

That answer seemed to hurt her more than any insult.

Grant jerked his shoulder against the tire. “Riley, get over here.”

She stayed where she was.

“Riley.”

“What?”

“Help me.”

She took half a step, then stopped. The jacket she had been holding slipped from her hands and landed in the oily water on the floor.

I could see the fight in her. She wanted the old version of him back—the one who let her sit beside him, laughed at her jokes, and called her his closest friend. But the man on the tire was not performing for her. His face was bruised and his voice was hoarse. He looked at her as if she had done this to him.

“You’re disgusting,” she whispered.

Grant’s eyes narrowed. “What did you say?”

“You smell.”

The words were small. They still cut through him.

His face twisted. He jerked violently against the ropes, yelling her name and calling her a traitor. Riley flinched, then stepped backward.

“Don’t come near me,” he shouted. “You did this! If you hadn’t picked a fight with Sloane, none of this would have happened.”

“You said it was funny.”

“You should’ve known better.”

“You watched.”

“I told you to stop!”

“You never told me to stop!”

They had argued like this before, I was sure, but never with the mask removed. Riley had not been his equal. She had been a source of entertainment and a loyal audience, a way for Grant to demonstrate that he could keep a woman close without treating her like a woman.

I turned to Dante. He had watched the exchange without interrupting.

“Are we done?” he asked.

“Almost.”

A guard brought over a heavy paintball rifle. It was the same model Grant had used in the woods, modified to fire hard paint rounds with enough force to leave deep bruises. Its weight dragged at my left arm.

I checked the barrel and raised it.

The shop fell silent.

Grant watched me lift it. The anger drained from his face. For the first time since he had woken, fear pushed everything else aside.

“Sloane,” he said, softer now. “Put it down.”

I shifted the rifle toward Riley.

Her mouth opened. “What are you doing?”

“Returning the favor.”

“I was joking.”

“I know. You explained that already.”

Grant twisted against the tire. “Don’t touch her.”

I looked at him. “Now you care?”

He had no answer.

I steadied the rifle with both hands. My right wrist was braced. The stock pressed against my shoulder. I had never fired this model before, but the target was close.

Riley backed away from the guards.

“Please,” she said.

I held my aim.

“Yesterday, you wanted everyone to look at me,” I said. “Now you get your turn.”