Dalia walked back to her room after dinner with Enzo. It had been… entertaining, to say the least. A lot had happened in just a day, and to her surprise, Enzo had been good company.
She dropped onto her bed, replaying her first encounter with Mr. Sinclare and how she'd stumbled upon this hotel.
Why had she really taken that job? For the money? The thrill? Or was it something else?
A voice echoed in her mind.
"Miss Dalia, I've heard you're a competent computer hacker."
"Well, I wouldn't say that."
"I have seen your previous works."
"Hobbies. Activities. I really don't know what causes you to think I'm some kind of computer genius when, in reality, I'm just a graduate with no official job."
"Well, not yet, of course."
"Are you planning on giving me a job?"
"Sort of."
A sharp ping from her laptop snapped her out of her thoughts.
V <3 sent you a message.
Dalia's breath caught.
No.
V wouldn't message her.
V couldn't message her.
She was dead.
She died on New Year's Eve.
At the hands of that damn man.
Dalia's throat tightened. She had warned her. Told her it would be her downfall. Their lives had been too different, their worlds too apart.
And fate?
Fate didn't deal in second chances. It wasn't some poetic force, weaving destinies with care. It was a blade—cold, unyielding, and precise. It cut where it pleased, severing lives without remorse.
And it had severed hers.
Dalia still remembered the lifeless body she had identified at the morgue. The way her parents had wept as their daughter was sealed inside a coffin.
She was too young for this. They were too young for this.
Her hands curled into fists at the flood of memories. Memories she had locked away, buried deep.
She swallowed hard, forcing herself to take a breath, to wet her lips. Hesitation gripped her, but her fingers hovered over the notification.
Click.
The message opened.
"You're invited to a night in honor of the lost. Those who weren't meant to be forgotten."
A crimson invitation with a gold seal filled her screen. The words seemed to flicker under the glow of her laptop, as if they were breathing.
Dalia's stomach twisted. This wasn't right.
She took a screenshot and backed out of the message, returning to her inbox.
Her pulse pounded.
The timestamp.
30 seconds ago.
Someone had messaged her from Vivienne's account 30 seconds ago.
Someone had access.
Someone close enough.
Him.
Then she returned to the screenshot, scanning every detail of the invitation, searching for something—anything—she had missed.
Apart from the date, nothing seemed off. But when she checked the recipient list, her blood ran cold.
In the corner.
In the RSVP section.
Two names.
William Santos Davenport
Andre Beaumont
He had made his move.
And this was his invitation to make hers.
And he wanted William first.
Dalia exhaled sharply.
She knew exactly who sent it. She had known about this event—just not that she was invited.
Now, she needed to find out what the hell was going on.
And she needed to start with William.
__________________________________________________________________________________
Dalia didn't like unannounced visitors.
Especially ones she had never met before.
So when the apartment door swung open and a tall, rain-dampened figure stepped inside like he belonged there, she tensed.
The man—William, she realized as Viviene called his name from the kitchen—shook off his coat, his dark eyes flicking over the room before settling on her. He didn't look startled to see her, which meant he had known she would be here. She couldn't say the same.
Viviene came bustling in with a mug in hand, barely sparing a glance at the tension in the air. "D, this is William. William, Dalia."
Dalia's grip on the couch arm tightened slightly. She knew the name. Viviene had spoken of him in passing, in the way one speaks of someone woven into their life—like an undeniable fact. But facts didn't erase the unease of meeting a stranger in your best friend's living room.
William inclined his head, his expression unreadable. "I've heard a lot about you."
Dalia raised an eyebrow. "Good things, I hope."
A smirk ghosted over his lips. "Mostly."
Viviene plopped down beside her, oblivious to—or maybe ignoring—the careful way Dalia was studying him. "Relax, D. Will's practically family."
That didn't mean much to Dalia. Family didn't come in through the door without knocking.
Still, she let herself ease back, even as she kept an eye on him. He wasn't overbearing, wasn't trying too hard. But he was watching her too. Assessing.
Not in a threatening way.
Just in the way someone does when they know they're being measured up in return.
The rain outside had softened to a quiet drizzle. The apartment felt warm despite the unwelcome surprise of his presence.
Dalia sipped her tea. "So, Will—what's your deal?"
His gaze didn't waver. "What do you mean?"
She shrugged. "Viv raves about you, but I don't know a thing beyond the name."
Viviene groaned. "D, stop interrogating him."
William only chuckled, shaking his head. "No, it's fine. I'd be suspicious too."
Dalia narrowed her eyes slightly. He wasn't wrong.
Maybe he wasn't as unwelcome as she thought.
Maybe.