I donated blood because I believed my boyfriend might die, but less than an hour later,

Brendan’s luxury apartment was no longer a sanctuary; it was a pressure cooker.

When we got back from the civic hall, Mason and Liam were already waiting in the lobby, pacing like caged rats. The moment the elevator doors closed on the penthouse floor, Mason slammed Brendan against the faux-marble accent wall.

“You said Simmons was handled!” Mason hissed, his face red with panic. “Do you have any idea what happens if Madame Laurent reports that audio to the city arts commission? My father is on that board, Brendan! If my name gets dragged into a public harassment lawsuit, he’ll cut my trust fund off by midnight!”

“Shut up, Mason!” Brendan shoved him off, straightening his coat with trembling fingers. “Simmons double-crossed us. That’s all it was. He wanted more money. Chloe doesn't suspect anything.”

“Are you blind?!” Liam yelled, clutching his hair. “Did you see how she looked at you from the stage? She mouthed *ninety-seven* at you, you arrogant prick!”

“She was talking about her score!” Brendan shouted back, though the sheen of cold sweat on his upper lip betrayed his words. “She thought the panel gave her a ninety-seven out of a hundred! She’s an idiot, Liam! She doesn't have the brains to coordinate a soundboard hijack. Julian Thorne was in the back—Thorne must have intercepted Gary and swapped the files to get back at the Montgomery family!”

I stood around the corner in the galley kitchen, pouring ice water into four crystal tumblers, listening to their empire fracture.

Fear had entered their little club.

For three years, their cruelty had thrived in the dark because there were no consequences. They were rich, insulated boys playing games with the life of a working-class dancer who had no powerful family to defend her. But the moment the dark was peeled back, they showed what they truly were: cowards who couldn't stomach the weight of their own names being spoken aloud.

I arranged the glasses on a silver tray, softened my expression into one of wide-eyed, fragile bewilderment, and stepped into the living room.

“Brendan?” I said softly, my voice quavering. “Why are you guys yelling? What was that voice in the hall today? It sounded… it sounded like you.”

The three men snapped their heads toward me. Mason instantly backed away toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, avoiding my eyes. Liam looked down at his designer loafers.

Brendan took a deep, shuddering breath, pasted on his signature tender smile, and walked toward me. He took the silver tray from my hands, set it on the console table, and pulled me into his arms.

He held me tight. I could feel his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

“It was an AI deepfake, sweetheart,” he lied, stroking the back of my neck with fingers that were clammy and cold. “Julian Thorne is a sick, bitter man. He’s hated my family for years because we wouldn't fund his little ghetto dance projects. He manipulated Gary Simmons into playing an altered voice track to try and ruin our relationship and shake down my father’s business.”

“An… an AI deepfake?” I whispered against his collarbone, allowing my body to tremble against his.

“Yes, baby,” Brendan said, his voice tightening with desperate persuasion. “He took clips from my corporate podcasts and stitched them together to make me sound like a monster. You don't believe that was really me, do you? After everything we’ve been through? After how much I love you?”

I looked up into his face. His eyes were wide, pleading, terrified—not of losing me, but of losing the millions Scarlett Montgomery’s father had promised his bankrupt family.

“I was so scared, Brendan,” I whimpered, letting a single, perfect tear spill over my lower lid. “I thought… I thought you were laughing at me.”

“Never,” he breathed, kissing my wet cheek with frantic relief. “Never, Chloe. I would die for you. You know that.”

Over his shoulder, I caught Mason’s eye. Mason was staring at me, his face pale, his brow furrowed with a sudden, creeping realization that something about this picture was entirely wrong. Mason was the smart one. He was beginning to see the outline of the trap.

My phone chimed in my pocket.

I stepped back from Brendan’s embrace and pulled it out. It was an email notification from the Chicago Choreographic Council.

*Dear Ms. Lin,*

*We are pleased to inform you that your presentation this afternoon was awarded the 2026 Sovereign Creative Grant by unanimous decision of the panel. The grant of $50,000 and the Autumn Performance Debut at the Grand Opera House Gala on Friday evening has been confirmed.*

I looked at the screen, then looked up at Brendan with pure, triumphant joy.

“Brendan,” I gasped, showing him the display. “I won. They’re giving me the opening performance at the Autumn Gala on Friday.”

Brendan stared at the email.

The color drained from his face entirely, then returned in a sudden, grotesque wave of predatory ambition.

The Autumn Gala. Friday night.

The exact night Scarlett Montgomery was flying back from Milan. The exact night he had promised to propose to Scarlett on the center stage of the Grand Opera House in front of two thousand patrons and every television camera in the tri-state area.

*He thinks God just handed him the ultimate stage for Scheme Ninety-Nine,* I thought.

“You won,” Brendan whispered, a slow, demonic smile returning to his mouth. “Baby… you won. You’re going to perform on the main stage at the Gala.”