HERMIONE
We're all piled onto my couch, buried under takeout containers and laughter.
Lia's legs are sprawled across Seraphine's lap. Claire's painting Isabelle's nails a hideous shade of green that she swears is "trendy in Milan." And for once, I feel… okay.
My phone's face-down on the coffee table. I haven't touched it all night — only left it on in case Dylan calls. The girls made me promise: No scrolling. No work. No checking to see if the world still hates me.
And I meant to listen.
Until the screen lights up.
A text.
From an unknown number.
I almost don't check it.
Almost.
I swipe it open.
Then I stop breathing.
YOU TOOK EVERYTHING FROM ME.
THE LIFE. THE DREAM. THE MAN.
YOU WALK AROUND LIKE YOU EARNED IT — AS IF YOU BUILT YOUR NAME FROM BLOOD AND FIRE. BUT I REMEMBER WHO YOU WERE BEFORE THE MAKEUP AND THE SUITS. YOU WERE NOBODY. A PITY PROJECT IN LIPSTICK.
AND NOW YOU'RE SLEEPING IN HIS BED.
NOW YOU'RE IN THAT TOWER. THAT CAR. THAT WORLD.
DOES HE KNOW YOU'RE A FRAUD?
DOES HE KNOW WHAT YOU DID TO GET THERE?
YOU STOLE MY LIFE.
AND I'M GOING TO TAKE IT BACK — PIECE BY PIECE.
FIRST, YOUR NAME.
THEN, YOUR FACE.
THEN, HIM.
I'M CLOSER THAN YOU THINK.
I'M WATCHING.
My fingers go cold.
The phone slips from my hand, hits the floor with a thud. Everyone looks up.
"What is it?" Seraphine says immediately. "Hermione?"
I can't speak. I can't blink. I just hand the phone to Lia.
She reads it silently. Her jaw tightens. Her hands tremble.
"Jesus Christ," she whispers.
"Was it online?" Claire asks. "Some bot? A troll?"
"No," Lia says quietly. "It was a direct message. Text. From an unlisted number. They knew things. Things that—"
She doesn't finish.
Isabelle grabs the phone. Her eyes scan the message. "This isn't just hate. This is personal. This is obsession."
"No one here has their phone out," Seraphine says sharply. "None of us. I turned mine off when we got here."
"Same," Claire says, checking her screen. "Still off."
"So… who would even know we're all here?" Isabelle asks.
I look down at the message again.
They're not guessing. They know.
They know Dylan. They know about me.
They know my life.
They think it was theirs first.
Billionaire Boys Club Night Out (Dylan's POV)
The guys are arguing over poker hands and market crashes when I feel my phone vibrate.
Lia.
She's not the kind of friend who calls for nothing.
"Dylan, it's Hermione." Her voice is too calm to be natural — too forced. "You need to come. Now."
My stomach drops. "What happened?"
"She got a message. A threat. Real. Ugly. Personal. Came through her phone just now — while we were all here, all together. No one else touched a phone. Which means someone was waiting. Watching. Targeting her."
I'm already on my feet.
"I'm coming."
I hang up, look at the guys.
"Something happened to Hermione," I say, my voice like ice. "Someone threatened her. Directly. Through her phone."
Cassian's face hardens.
Daniel stands. "You driving or should I?"
"We're all going," Ronan says. "Now."
Hermione's Apartment
The door bursts open, and Dylan walks in like a storm with four shadows behind him.
His eyes lock on mine. I'm still on the couch, knees to my chest, phone clenched in my hands like it's a ticking bomb.
He kneels in front of me. "Are you hurt?"
"No," I whisper. "Just scared."
Lia hands him the phone. Dylan reads the message silently, and I watch something in him break.
He doesn't speak. Doesn't move.
Then he looks at Cassian and says, "Find the number. Trace it. Get me names. I want to know if they even thought about breathing near her."
Cassian's already dialing someone. Ronan's checking the perimeter. Kainalu's by the windows, scanning buildings.
But Dylan doesn't look away from me.
"They're not going to touch you," he says finally. "Not one inch of you. I'll burn this city down before I let them."
His voice is a promise.
And a warning.