Four days.
Ninety-six hours.
Five missed meetings.
Twelve ignored messages.
And one silence that wrapped itself around her throat like a noose.
Soraya didn't wait well.
Power taught her patience was a poor woman's virtue. That waiting meant weakness — the kind of thing desperate girls did when men didn't text back.
But she was not desperate.
She was in control. Always.
Except… she wasn't.
Not with Jace.
Not since he walked away without the usual grovel, without so much as a sarcastic goodbye. Not since he had the nerve to look her in the eye and choose himself over her chaos.
And now, every hour he didn't come crawling back felt like a personal insult. Like an unraveling.
She hated it. Hated how his absence became a constant echo in her head.
It mocked her in quiet moments. When she stirred her coffee. When she undressed for bed. When she stared at her phone screen longer than she should have.
She'd even dreamt of him. Just once.
And woke up furious.
That was when she'd decided: enough was enough.
The drive to the bar felt like war prep.
Black dress. Red lips. A silk trench that said danger louder than words ever could.
The bouncer recognized her and didn't even try to card her — just nodded stiffly and let her through. She was dressed like sin, and she wore her rage like perfume.
Inside, the place smelled like cheap tequila and worse decisions.
And then there he was.
Behind the bar. Like nothing had changed. Like he hadn't left her orbit without permission.
His sleeves were rolled up, forearms inked and slick with effort, tossing a shaker over one shoulder like he hadn't once begged her to ruin him.
She didn't care about the girls sitting at the bar. Didn't care that he was laughing. Didn't care that for a second, he looked almost free.
She cared that he wasn't with her.
That he hadn't bled the way she had.
Soraya walked straight up, heels slicing through the bass-pumped air like gunshots.
The music dimmed. The lights didn't flicker — but it felt like they should have.
She reached the bar and said, clear as crystal, venom laced in silk:
"You had no right to disappear."
He turned slowly like he already knew it was her.
His eyes found hers, and the room dissolved. Her voice sharpened:
"You're mine. My personal toy. You don't get to walk away unless I say so."
Conversations around them died like cut wires.
Someone coughed. Glass clinked.
Jace just stared. His mouth parted, but he didn't speak.
Didn't smile. Didn't flinch.
So she stepped closer.
Close enough to smell the citrus of his cologne. Close enough for him to see that yes, she was unhinged — and yes, she would do this in front of everyone.
Her voice dropped to a whisper meant only for him.
"Get your things, Jace. We're leaving."
He blinked, once. Then again. She could see the conflict flicker across his face — defiance fighting history, dignity battling addiction.
Still, he said nothing.
Soraya leaned closer, lips barely grazing his ear.
"You said you wanted me. I never said I was done."
She pulled back, meeting his gaze. "You don't get to leave me, Jace."
A muscle twitched in his jaw.
His fingers flexed over the edge of the bar.
And then — like a spark caught in gasoline — he threw the rag over his shoulder, turned to the girl at the counter, and muttered, "Cover for me."
Soraya's smile curled slow and smug.
He followed her out.