Chapter 2

I kept my head down, pretending to type, but the skin on the back of my neck crawled.

Every time I glanced up, that coworker looked away. His eyes held a strange, violating weight. It made my stomach churn with physical nausea.

A shadow fell over my keyboard. Vance's assistant.

"Where are the physical Q3 projection files?" he demanded, his voice flat.

I blinked. "You said we were doing everything digitally this quarter."

"The boss needs the hard copies of the drafts you took home yesterday for the board meeting. Now."

So I reluctantly grabbed my purse, my pulse hammering as I headed to the subway.

On my way home, I couldn't stop thinking about those eyes that were gone.

I tried to shake it off. I desperately tried to convince myself it meant nothing.

Just a glare hitting the camera. A trick of the light. Nothing else.

I stepped off the elevator and pulled my keys out.

My front door was cracked open an inch.

I froze. The metal key bit into the palm of my hand.

Low voices drifted through the narrow gap. Men.

"How is the Violet Pearl you're cultivating?" a stranger asked.

"Perfect," another replied.

It was Carter.

My breath completely stopped.

"The container is thoroughly nourished by the pheromones," Carter continued, his voice calm and professional. "We haven't had a single rejection symptom in five years."

My shaking fingers fumbled for the side button on my Apple Watch, swiping blindly to hit the voice memo record.

"Good," the stranger said. "Keep a close eye on her today. We cannot afford mistakes."

"Understood." Footsteps began to move toward the door.

I didn't breathe. I slipped out of my heels, holding them in my left hand, and sprinted silently down the emergency stairwell.

The rough concrete tore at my sheer tights, but I didn't stop running until I was three blocks away, blending into the crowd.

I leaned against a brick alley wall, gasping for air.

Violet Pearl. Container. Cultivating.

The comments from last night flashed behind my eyes. The pieces violently slammed together.

I walked the streets like a ghost. I had no idea where I was going.

As the sun dipped below the skyline, my phone screen flashed red. Three percent battery.

It vibrated intensely in my hand. Becca. My best friend.

I swiped answer, pressing the speaker tightly to my ear.

"Chloe, where the hell are you?" Becca practically screamed over the line.

"Carter has been calling me non-stop. He's panicking!"

"Becca," I rasped. "I need to come to your place in Brooklyn. Do not tell him. Please. Just don't tell him."

An hour later, I was gripping a steaming mug of chamomile tea on Becca's velvet sofa.

"You're hallucinating, sweetie," Becca said, tucking a blanket around my trembling shoulders.

"I recorded it. I have it on my watch."

Becca offered a pitying smile.

"You said the watch died on your way here. Chloe, look at yourself. You haven't slept. You're burnt out from that toxic company. Carter loves you. Five years, Chloe. He treats you like royalty."

I stared into the pale yellow liquid in my mug. Her soothing words coated my ears like syrup, but the knot of terror in my gut remained rock solid.

"Get some sleep," she whispered, taking the empty mug from my hands.

We climbed into her cramped guest bed. The tea pulled me down into a thick.

Sometime in the dead of night, I felt the mattress shift. Becca slid out from under the covers.

I was too paralyzed by exhaustion to open my eyes. I heard the faint click of a door. A few minutes later, footsteps returned to the bedside.

The mattress sank.

It didn't just dip. The springs groaned in protest, violently angling my body toward the center of the bed. A massive heat radiated against my back.

My drowsy brain spiked with raw adrenaline.

Before I could move, a heavy, muscular arm wrapped around my waist.

The darkness swallowed me.

Suddenly, Carter was pinning me down. The dim bedside lamp caught the terrifying, purplish gleam of the dark pearl in his hand.

I pushed his chest. "Carter, wait, no—"

His charming smile vanished. His face twisted into a grotesque snarl. He dropped the pearl and pulled out something sharp, cold, and metallic, driving it ruthlessly between my legs.

I screamed, violently throwing myself upward.

I opened my eyes. I was entirely naked.

I wasn't in Brooklyn. I was strapped to Carter’s king-sized bed. Blinding LED ring lights pointed directly at my face. The laptop sat on the nightstand, its screen overflowing with rapid-fire text.

[October 31.Harvest day!]

[Her vitals are peaking. Five years of waiting!]

A man in surgical scrubs stepped into the light, holding a scalpel.

I shrieked, thrashing against the heavy leather straps, tearing the skin off my wrists—

My eyes snapped open.

I bolted upright, gasping for air, clutching the duvet to my chest.

Floral wallpaper. A narrow window looking out over the Brooklyn bridge.

Becca’s guest room. I was fully clothed.

My hand slammed onto the nightstand, grabbing my phone. I pressed the home button.

October 30.

A nightmare. A horrifying, layered nightmare.

I dragged myself out of bed, sweat dripping down my spine.

The dark web URL from the laptop screen in my dream burned clearly in my memory. My body felt wrong. Every nerve ending screamed that something foreign was inside of me.

First thing. I was going to a private clinic three towns over and demanding a full pelvic MRI.

The bedroom door pushed open.

Becca stood in the frame, applying a thick coat of dark red lipstick. She wore a tight leather dress.

"Get up," she said, tossing me a pair of heels. "You're suffocating in here. We are going out for a drink to fix your nerves."

I stared at her, terrified to say no. Rejection right now would make her suspicious.

An hour later, the heavy bass of an underground industrial club rattled my teeth.

Strobe lights cut through thick, artificial fog. Sweaty bodies pressed together in a suffocating mob. It was completely isolated from the street level.

I leaned against the sticky bar, gripping a glass of water.

Someone could butcher me on this dance floor and nobody would hear a thing.

I scanned the writhing crowd. Becca was gone.

I pushed through a group of ravers, approaching the dark VIP alcoves near the back exit.

A spark flared in the shadows.

Becca stood in the corner, lighting a thin mint cigarette. She pressed her phone tightly to her ear, shielding her mouth from the noise.

I crept behind a concrete pillar, holding my breath.

Becca exhaled a long plume of smoke, her eyes scanning the crowd with a cold, predatory focus.

"I know," she said over the phone, her sweet, best-friend tone completely eradicated. "The merchandise is here. Close the net tonight."