Freya’s POV

Some signatures didn’t need signing.

One glance at the grainy photo was enough. The dim background. The rust-colored tile. My shirt half-ripped, my face partially turned, and David’s drunk frame towering too close for comfort.

I had to hand it to Stella—the girl knew her angles. If I weren't the one in the shot, I'd swear those two were getting freaky in the club bathroom.

But I remembered that moment exactly—his sour breath on my cheek. My ...