By six-forty-five, I'm pacing, wearing paths in his expensive carpet.
By six-fifty, I can't stand it anymore.
Fuck his rules. Fuck being obedient on my last night.
I arrive at Purgatory at seven p.m.
I’m an hour early, deliberately disobeying his direct order.
The guard at the private entrance raises an eyebrow.
It's the same one from my first night, the one who told me I was looking for Hell whether I knew it or not.
He was right.
"You're early, Miss Deveraux."
He knows my name.
Of course he does.
Everyone here probably knows exactly who I am by now—Cassius Wolfe's latest toy.
"I need to see him."
"Mr. Wolfe said eight p.m."
"Please." The desperation in my voice is pathetic, but I don't care. "It's my last night."
Something in his expression softens slightly—pity, maybe. "You sure you want to interrupt him when he's working? He doesn't like that."
"I'll take my chances."
He sighs, speaks into his earpiece.
There's a muffled response, then he nods. "Go to his office. He's not pleased."
Good.
I want him displeased.
Want him feeling something other than the coldness I'm bound to receive after tonight.
Sure, he told me to stay, alluded to the fact we didn't have to let this end… but who am I kidding?
His distance is proof enough he is ending this.
The elevator ride feels endless. With each floor, my heart beats faster. When the doors open, I step into Hell and make my way back to his usual room, but there's a door that's open.
The room beyond is corporate. Clean. All marble and glass and modern art that probably costs millions.
Nothing like the decadent darkness of Hell surrounding us.
This is his legitimate face, I realize.
The businessman who owns half the city through shell companies and violence.
I follow the sound of voices to a conference room with glass walls.
