Page 144 of Arrow

Picking up my phone again, I scrolled through my contacts until I found the number I was looking for.

It rang three times before a familiar voice answered.

“Harlowe?” Orion sounded surprised. “Everything okay?”

“Where is he?” I demanded, not bothering with pleasantries.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “He’s handling business.”

“At The Raven? With Svetlana Kovenski’s tongue down his throat? That kind of business?”

Another pause . . . longer this time. “It’s complicated.”

“Uncomplicate it for me,” I snapped, my grip tightening on the phone. “Or I swear to God, I will burn this entire fucking arrangement to the ground.”

Orion sighed. “He’s meeting with her father. The Kovenskis control the diamond trade, and with your wedding coming up, we need their cooperation to ensure certain . . . gifts . . . make it through customs without issue.”

“And she just happened to be there?” I laughed bitterly. “How convenient.”

“Look, Harlowe⁠—”

“Save it.” I hung up and hurled my phone across the room.

My phone crashed against the wall and fell to the floor, screen cracked but still glowing with those damning images. I stared at it, feeling something dark and ugly unfurl inside me.

Diamonds. Customs. Business.

Bull-fucking-shit.

I’d seen how women looked at Arrow—like he was a force of nature they wanted to be destroyed by. And this blonde? She wasn’t just any socialite, she was his ex. The woman he’d been with before our arrangement, if the gossip sites were to be believed.

I stormed to the bedroom and yanked open the closet door. I changed quickly, stripping out of my sweats and pulling on tight black jeans, a dark top that showed just enough skin to be distracting, and boots with heels sharp enough to pierce a jugular. I grabbed my leather jacket and checked myself in the mirror.

His chain hung around my throat, glinting in the light. I touched it, feeling the cold metal against my fingertips, remembering how it felt when he pulled it tight.

With a sudden, violent motion, I yanked it off and tossed it on his dresser.

Let him come home and find it there—a message.

The night doorman gave me a startled look when I strode through the lobby.

“Ms. Virelli,” he said, clearly surprised to see me leaving alone. “Would you like me to call a car for you?”

“No,” I said coldly. “And if Mr. Romanov asks, tell him I went to find better company.”

I pushed through the revolving doors and stepped onto the sidewalk. I hailed a cab, sliding into the back seat with purpose.

“La Lune Noire,” I told the driver.

He glanced at me in the rearview. “You got it.”

Isadora smiled when she saw me, wrapping her arms tightly around my body. The club was more electric than usual, a fusion of raw pink and obsidian blue poured over every surface. The air was saturated with the scent of gin, vanilla, and sweat.

“Harlowe! I didn’t expect to see you here after . . . last time. Zephyr’s got a new act tonight,” she apologized.

“What? Why? We’ve been together since I started here.”

She looked away, not meeting my eyes, and the realization hit me.