I stare at the floor so long the floor begins to blur. Who do I trust? The answer comes quick and bitter.

No one.

Not him. Not Dominic. Not the Stanley twins. Not any man who speaks in choices when every road he offers is lined with his own intentions.

My fingers curl into my palms until my nails bite skin. The sting helps. It keeps me here, in this room, in this moment, instead of drowning in the memories clawing up my throat.

Traded.

Claimed.

Chased.

Owned.

Every version of my life has been ...