chapter 3: Third anniversary

I woke up to the soft brush of Hunter’s lips against my skin.

“Happy third anniversary,” he whispered in my ear.

I smiled back, murmuring the same.

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I looked at him. The smile on his face made something ache inside me — it felt like a memory. In front of me sat a perfectly cooked breakfast. Hunter rarely made breakfast, let alone waited for me to wake up. Usually, I opened my eyes to an empty bed.

“I’m sorry, I can’t spend the whole day with you,” he said, kissing my lips. “But name it — where do you want to go for dinner?”

I sipped my coffee before answering absentmindedly, “Where you proposed to me.”

He paused, eyes narrowing for the briefest moment, before kissing me again. “Why not.”

The way he looked at me — and the smell of coffee in the air — dragged me back three years, to a time when Hunter was the man of my dreams. Back then, he cared about every little thing, took me to all our favorite places, made me feel like I mattered. He was the one who pushed me to chase my dreams. I was in love with him long before I dared admit it.

But one day, he started ignoring me. Late replies. Cancelled plans. I thought he was just busy — until I saw him with a girl. People whispered they were dating, and I believed them. I cried for two days straight before I finally caved and checked his Instagram.

There they were, at Francesco’s club. My control slipped that night. I went there, heart pounding.

The moment I saw him, I screamed his name and ran to him, hugging him tight.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Are you two dating?” I blurted.

“Yes,” he said with a smile that shattered me. Tears burned my eyes, but I forced out, “C-Congratulations.” I turned to leave before breaking in front of him. People were watching. I didn’t care.

Then Hunter cleared his throat, and suddenly the crowd was cheering. Confused, I turned back to see him kneeling in front of me.

“I like you, Dylan. Would you go out with me?” His voice was low, husky.

“But… aren’t you dating her?” My hands trembled.

“I lied. She’s just my sister.”

Relief crashed over me so hard it left me dizzy. “Of course yes.”

He smirked, slid a slightly-too-tight ring on my finger, and I threw my arms around him.

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I shook off the memory when Hunter handed me a huge branded box. “I’ll pick you up at eight,” he said.

Inside was a turtleneck top, matching overcoat and pants, and branded gumboots. When I tried them on, I realized it wasn’t my style at all. Not a single inch of skin showed. The high neck felt almost suffocating. It was his taste, not mine.

I spent the day studying until evening, then dressed and waited. When Hunter arrived, he was in a matching outfit — except his shirt was unbuttoned at the top, exposing part of his chest.

I didn’t expect him to actually take me to Francesco’s club. How had he even booked his enemy’s place? The interior was unchanged, just as I remembered. Our table sat perfectly centered, a candle flickering between us, soft music curling through the air. It reminded me of nights we danced together in the kitchen.

We toasted with expensive wine, exchanged bracelets, and he said, “Cheers to our three years together.”

I smiled, but when the food arrived, I noticed it was all his favorites — half of which I disliked. Still, I ate in silence.

Then the lights went out. Smoke thickened in the air. Gunshots split the night.

“Come to me, Dylan!” Hunter’s voice carried a sharp edge of panic.

I stumbled toward him as he called David, his assistant. Anthony. The name made my blood run cold. Anthony hated my father, and killing me would be his way of sending a message.

“Go hide,” Hunter ordered, gun in hand.

I ran upstairs in the dark, afraid to use my flashlight. On the second-to-last floor, I heard footsteps. Multiple. My chest tightened. I ducked into the last room, clapping a hand over my mouth to silence my breathing.

The footsteps came closer. Gunshots rang out. A body fell. A gun slid across the floor to my feet — the guard’s, probably. I picked it up, checking the chamber. Loaded.

Footsteps again. I aimed, finger trembling. The moment a shadow appeared, I lunged — but before I could shoot, the figure knocked the gun from my hands and shoved me down.

He was huge. Even in the dark, I could tell. My wrists were pinned above my head, my kicks useless. My breath came fast, my pulse hammering. Then I saw his face.

Francesco Fiorello.

He didn’t speak, didn’t smile. Just stared for a beat before lifting me onto his shoulder like I weighed nothing. I fought, shouting, hitting his back, but he didn’t even flinch.

The darkness swallowed us as he carried me toward a door I couldn’t see.

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