Chapter 64

The night air is thick with humidity, the kind that clings to your skin like a second layer. I stand at the edge of the rooftop bar, fingers curled tightly around the railing as the city hums below. Neon lights flicker against the glass buildings, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the streets.

Behind me, footsteps approach—slow, deliberate.

I don't turn. I don't have to.

"You're late," I say, my voice sharper than intended.

Michael chuckles, the sound low and rich. "Patience, sweetheart. I had to make sure we weren't being followed."

I finally glance over my shoulder. He's standing a few feet away, hands tucked into his coat pockets, his usual smirk playing at the corner of his lips. The wind ruffles his dark hair, but his eyes—calculating, unreadable—stay locked onto me.

I hate that he always looks so at ease, like none of this affects him. Like he's above it all.