DAPHNE

"Why do you want me to attend this party?" My voice comes out softer than I intend, breathy and uncertain. I'm still trying to make sense of it, to figure out why Ezekiel insists on dragging me along when he could just bring his precious ex-fiancée instead.

His eyes light up with amusement, and a smirk curls at the corners of his lips. "Now we're talking." He steps back and lowers himself into the nearest chair, relaxing like he has all the time in the world. "I need you to hack into the Mayor's system."

I blink, unsure I heard him right. "What?" My voice sharpens. "You want me to do what?"

"Hack into the Mayor’s system." He repeats, like he's asking me to pass the salt and not commit a federal crime.

I stare at him. Is he insane? "Are you out of your mind? Do you even know what you're asking? Why do you even want to hack into his system?"

He shrugs like it's no big deal. "That part doesn't concern you."

"Of course it concerns me." I erupt. "If I'm the one doing it, then I deserve to know why."

Ezekiel lets out a long, tired sigh and runs a hand through his hair. His voice lowers, growing colder. "Princess, when are you going to understand something?" He leans forward, eyes sharp like a blade. "This isn't a request. You're going to do it."

That tone again, commanding, firm, like he's already decided how things will go and my thoughts are irrelevant. His authority clings to me, thick and suffocating.

And I hate it. I hate how he speaks to me like I belong to him. Like my mind, my skills, my choices are just tools for him to use.

But more than that, I hate how part of me wants to know why. What he's planning. What secrets the Mayor might be hiding that would make Ezekiel need me.

"What do I get in return?" I ask instead, keeping my voice steady.

There's no point in fighting him, at least not right now. Ezekiel is the kind of man who won't back down when he's made up his mind. If I'm going to play this game, I might as well get something out of it.

His eyes widen for a split second, just a flicker of surprise. Maybe he didn't expect me to agree so easily, or maybe he didn't expect me to bargain. Either way, the expression vanishes as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual unreadable calm.

"You're making a bargain?" He sounds a little too amused.

"I think I deserve something in return." I reply, lifting my chin. "Fair is fair."

He studies me for a moment, then gives a small nod like he's weighing my offer in his mind.

"So?" I press. "What am I getting in return?"

He leans forward just slightly. "Natalie Jackson."

The name hits me like a slap. I feel the blood drain from my face.

"I'll help you find her."

My hands clench by my sides. "You'll help me find her?" My voice shakes before I can stop it. "You're the one who took her, aren't you? Don't try to play games with me."

Ezekiel exhales, long and slow, like he is tired of this conversation already. "We're still doing this?"

"Where is she?" I demand, taking a step toward him. "Where did you hide her?"

He looks at me like I'm the one being unreasonable. "Why would I abduct your friend?" He murmurs, his voice slow and deep, almost like he's humming a lullaby.

"Because her last message mentioned you. Your name and the date she vanished. That's the only clue I have."

"That doesn't prove anything." He answers coolly.

"You said it yourself. You killed..."

"Did I?" He interrupts me, shrugging, the movement lazy, almost careless. "I don't remember saying I killed her."

And just like that, it hits me, our conversation in his study room. He's right. Ezekiel never actually admitted to taking Natalie. Not in so many words. But why then... Why all the hints? The fear he planted in me? No. I'm not going to fall for his games.

"So you're saying you had nothing to do with her disappearance?" I whisper, eyes narrowing on him.

He doesn't answer. He simply rises from the chair, slow and deliberate, as if the question wasn't worth a response.

"How am I supposed to believe you'll help me find her?" I press, my voice sharper now.

"Trust me." He murmurs without looking back.

"Unfortunately, I don't."

That gets his attention. He turns, his grey eyes locking onto mine before he closes the space between us in a few sure strides. He leans down, his face is so close I can feel his breath on my skin. Warm. Controlled. His cologne, bergamot and something darker wraps around me like a net.

"Then find her yourself." He breathes, his voice low and dangerous. "While you're locked in here... crying like a baby."

My breath catches. He's baiting me, and it's working. The shame, the rage, it surges up all at once.

"Then I won't help you hack into the system." I bite out, lifting my chin in defiance.

His gaze hardens. "You wouldn't dare." He warns, his tone chillingly calm.

"What will you do then?" My voice wavers despite my best effort. "Kill me if I refuse?"

"Killing you is far too easy." His words are like ice against my skin. "Maybe I'll kill your friend instead."

I gasp. The air seems to vanish from the room. My vision blurs as tears prick my eyes. He's threatening me, using Natalie like a pawn.

"You're a monster." I whisper, my voice trembling.

And for once, he doesn't deny it.

I hate that he's using Natalie against me. I hate how powerless I feel in his presence. No matter how hard I try to keep my walls up, Ezekiel tears them down with a few words, stripping me bare until all that's left is fear and fury. I hate how easily he does it, how he sees through every layer I put on. The tears spill before I can stop them, hot and silent.

"You're really going to keep threatening me, aren't you?" My voice cracks, raw and shaken.

He leans back with a slow, mocking shrug. "Should I bring a bucket?" His eyes flick to mine. "So you can fill it with your tears?"

God, I hate him. Every word he speaks makes it worse. I swipe the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand, forcing myself to stand straighter.

"Are you going to keep your part of the bargain?" I manage to ask, though my voice is uneven.

"That depends." He replies coolly. "Are you going to trust me?"

I don't answer. Trusting him feels impossible.

He glances at his watch, then straightens. "The stylist should be here any minute. Get ready." With that, he turns and heads for the door.

But just before leaving, he stops and throws one last look over his shoulder. "You look ugly when you cry."

My jaw tightens, and I shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. But he only smirks and walks out, shutting the door behind him like nothing happened. Like he hadn't just torn me apart.