HERMIONE
The moment Adrian closes the door, the silence swells.
Heavy.
Bitter.
I sit there, curled into Dylan's chest, but my mind is spiraling in a hundred directions.
Someone close to me.
It wasn't a mistake. It wasn't an accident.
It was planned. Precision. Intent.
Public humiliation. Strategic exposure.
My voice feels distant, like it belongs to someone else.
"Do you think it was a friend?"
Dylan's fingers are steady on my spine, grounding me. "I think it was someone pretending to be."
That narrows it down to half of Los Angeles.
I pull away and stand, wobbling. My legs feel made of glass. I grip the arm of the couch.
"I need to… I need to think."
He rises too—slower, calmer. The hunter to my panic.
"Hermione."
His voice is low. Measured. Careful.
"You're safe here."
I nod, but the movement feels robotic.
Safe?
Safe feels like a myth when the enemy has your photo, your number, your face, and maybe your past.
I cross the room aimlessly, blood roaring in my ears.
The photo.
The damn photo.
It wasn't Elijah.
I'd trusted him once—he mentored me, praised me, guided me.
But this wasn't his doing.
Someone gave it to him.
Someone close.
Someone with access.
Someone who smiled in my face.
A sharp wave of nausea twists in my gut.
"I need air," I whisper, already heading for the balcony.
Dylan follows. He doesn't try to stop me. Doesn't speak. Just walks behind me like a silent shield.
Outside, the city sprawls below, glittering like a lie. I brace my hands on the railing, trying to breathe through the weight on my chest.
"I don't know who to trust anymore," I murmur.
"You trust me."
Not a question.
A vow.
I turn slowly. He stands behind me, face shadowed in the amber glow of the patio light.
"I want to. God, Dylan, I do. But this—this is my life. My career. My name. Everything I've built…"
I shake my head. "It's unraveling."
His voice is quiet. Unshakable.
"You didn't build it alone.
And you're not going to rebuild it alone either."
The words echo in the space between us, delicate but powerful.
I want to believe him.
I want to fall into that certainty.
But there's something sharp and buried twisting inside me.
So I ask the question I've been too scared to voice.
"Do you think it was one of my friends?"
He doesn't blink. "I think anyone who hurts you will regret it."
A chill rolls down my spine—not fear.
Certainty.
Because I believe him.
His phone buzzes inside.
Without a word, he leaves to answer it, giving me space I didn't ask for—but suddenly need.
I stare out at the skyline, heart pounding.
Everything feels like glass.
Fragile.
Ready to crack.
And the worst part?
I'm thinking about them.
My girls.
My circle.
The women who've seen me ugly-cry, scream, celebrate, and fall apart.
Lia.
Isabelle.
Seraphine.
Claire.
One of them—maybe—maybe—put a knife in my back.
And I don't know who.
Not yet.
But the seed is planted.
And it's already blooming into suspicion.
Dylan
Inside, I pace near the window, phone pressed to my ear.
Adrian's voice cuts through the line.
"I've started a trace. But whoever sent that photo knew what they were doing. Layers of firewalls, dead IPs, misdirection."
"Strip them bare," I say through gritted teeth. "I want phone records. Deleted emails. Bank transactions. Every thread they left behind."
A pause.
"Start with her inner circle."
Adrian hesitates. "You're sure?"
"No hesitation. Full sweep. I want to know which one of them was close enough to stab her."
"And when we find them?"
My hand curls into a fist.
"When we find them, I'll handle it personally."