Chapter 7

The wildness in my eyes makes him freeze.

He runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek. Something dark flickers behind his gaze. His hand snaps around my wrist.

"I've been too easy on you lately, haven't I?"

His phone rings. His face changes instantly. "Anya — baby, hold on — I'm on my way, don't be scared."

He looks at me, already halfway to the door. "Anya's stomach hurts. I'm going to her. And that studio of yours — I already canceled the lease. Stay put."

He's gone before I can speak. The door slams.

I sit on the hospital bed for a long time. Staring at nothing.

Then I pick up my phone. My fingers are shaking, but my voice is steady.

"Before I come to you — help me stage one last performance."

"Make it convincing. I need him to believe I'm dead."

I hang up. A new message lights up my screen.

Anya, curled against Dante's chest, tracing circles on his collarbone with her fingertip:

See, Wren? Even after you nearly died from a snake attack, all I have to do is say one word and he drops you to come running to me.

He doesn't love you. He never did. You almost lost your life for him and he still picks me every single time. You're pathetic.

I grip the phone until my knuckles go white. Tears hit the screen and blur the words.

There are guards outside my door. I can't run. I can only wait.

Every time I close my eyes, the nightmares come. Ninety-nine rounds of hell. Dante's cold, empty stare. Gran dying alone on an operating table, calling my name. The baby I never got to hold.

The next day, Dante brings Anya to visit me.

"Wren, sweetie, are you feeling better?" Anya pouts, all wounded innocence. "Dante really does care about you, you know. Even after everything, he still wants to give you a fair rematch."

"But if you won't play… it just proves you don't really love him. That you never wanted him at all."

I turn my head. I look at both of them. Calm.

"Fine. I'll play."

Dante's eyes flash bright — just for a second.

Anya stiffens. She wasn't expecting that. Hatred ripples under her sweet face, but her voice stays sugar-soft.

"Of course I want a fair fight. But this time, I set the rules."

Dante strokes her hair, indulgent. "Of course. You earned that right when you won the last round."

Where he can't see, her mouth curves into something venomous.

"Last time we played the gun, and you lost. That must have killed you." She tilts her head, mock sympathy. "So this time — we play the gun again. Sound fair?"

My expression doesn't change. I nod. "Fine by me."

"Then it's settled." Her eyes are full of calculation, but her smile is radiant. "Dante, baby, let's go set everything up. Let her rest."

Something tugs at Dante — a flicker of unease he can't name. But before he can think, Anya hooks her arm through his and pulls him out the door.

The next night.

They drive me to a cliff above the open ocean.

A small table. Two chairs. A black revolver in the center, its barrel gleaming cold under the moon.

Anya and I sit on opposite sides. The soldiers lead us to our places.

Dante's Bentley rolls up behind us. He steps out, slow, deliberate, and settles into a leather throne his men have placed at the cliff's edge. A soldier stands beside him holding a bottle of champagne.

"After this round," he says, voice low, eyes drifting between us, "I'll announce my engagement to the winner. Right here. Right now."

"Begin."

Anya plays modest. "Wren, sweetie — I'll let you roll for first shot. Fair and square. Odd number, you go first."

I don't hesitate. I roll. Odd. First shot is mine.

I hear Dante's breath catch. His knuckles go white around the arm of the throne.

That reaction tells me everything. The bullet is in an even chamber. He rigged it for her again.

Anya's face goes pale. "Wait — no — best two out of three!"

I almost laugh. I let her have it.

She rolls again — somehow, both times landing odd. She steals first shot back.

"Looks like I go first after all."

Dante doesn't intervene. His voice is flat. "Get on with it."

Anya gives him a slow, seductive smile. She picks up the gun, presses it to her own chest, and pulls the trigger.

Click.

The gun slides across to me.

I pick it up. I weigh it in my palm for just a second — and a cold laugh escapes my lips.

This isn't the same prop from last time. It's heavier. The balance is different.

This gun is real.

And the bullets inside it are real too.