Sometimes, you don't break the rules because you want to.
You break them because the rules are a noose.
And I've never looked good in rope.
So I put on the red dress. The one with the slit high enough to get a man disowned and the neckline low enough to earn me another camera in my room. I curled my hair like a girl with a plan and painted my mouth the same shade as rebellion.
Then I slipped out the back of the mansion using the tunnel no one had used in ten years — except me.
The Secret Service thought they'd sealed it.
They didn't know about the girl who saw everything.
Not the maids. Not the guards.
Not even Killian Cross.
At least… I thought he didn't know.
The Golden Moon Lounge was a myth dressed in red velvet.
An underground oasis in Aurelia City where the powerful came to whisper, drink, and sin.
You didn't get in unless you were someone. Or unless you knew someone.
Lucky for me, I was both.
"Pheobe," the hostess breathed like I'd floated in on champagne bubbles. "Is that you?"
"Depends," I said. "Who's asking?"
She laughed, adjusting her gold corset. "You haven't been here in forever."
"I've been grounded," I replied sweetly. "Presidential scandal and all."
She waved it off. "We've had worse. You want your usual?"
"Yes. And a table where I can see everyone but no one sees me."
She smiled. "VIP vault. Right this way."
I sipped bourbon I didn't like from a glass shaped like temptation and crossed my legs under the table like I was born to break hearts.
Every eye in the lounge found me eventually.
Some lingered.
Most stared.
One or two even reached for their phones — until the bouncer near my booth gave a single shake of his head.
The message was clear: Look, but don't touch.
But he wasn't here.
Not yet.
And I wasn't leaving until he was.
Because tonight wasn't about rebellion.
It was about control.
My control.
I didn't sneak out just to make headlines.
I wanted to see how fast he'd come for me.
And more importantly, what he'd do when he did.
Would he scold me like a bad little princess?
Drag me back in handcuffs?
Call my father and wash his hands clean?
No.
That wasn't Killian Cross.
He was silence sharpened into a weapon.
He was discipline masquerading as disinterest.
But I saw the way his throat moved when I wore that silk nightgown.
The way his jaw clenched when I dared him to kiss me.
And I knew.
I knew the only thing stopping him from destroying me… was the line between us.
So tonight?
I made sure he'd have to cross it.
The booth behind me rustled.
I didn't have to turn.
I felt him.
Like a drop in temperature. A shift in pressure. A string snapping in my chest.
"Pheobe."
That voice.
Deep. Controlled. Quiet enough to sound safe — but heavy enough to feel like a blade.
I set down my glass without flinching.
"You found me," I said.
He didn't sit. Didn't touch. Just stood there like a warning.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked.
"Breathing," I replied, smiling. "You should try it sometime."
"You were ordered to stay in the mansion."
I turned, slow and deliberate.
"I didn't sign anything."
"Your father—"
"Is not here."
His eyes darkened.
"Get up," he said.
"No."
He didn't blink. "Pheobe."
I reached for my drink again. "You're not my father. You're not even my boyfriend. You're just the guy who watches me sleep."
His jaw twitched.
And I knew that got to him.
Good.
I wanted it to.
"Get up," he said again, voice low.
"Or what?"
I looked him dead in the eye.
"Gonna spank me in front of the entire lounge? Gonna throw me over your shoulder and carry me out like some caveman? Or are you just gonna stare at me until I apologize?"
He didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
Because the next second — the world flipped.
Literally.
He grabbed my arm, yanked me to my feet, and before I could protest, he threw his coat around my shoulders and whispered four words into my ear that made every inch of me go still:
"We're not alone tonight."
He didn't walk me out.
He dragged me.
Not roughly.
Not violently.
But with the kind of urgency that made my heart panic for reasons that had nothing to do with fear.
I caught glimpses as we passed the tables — men whispering, women staring, hands reaching for pockets where phones waited to record.
Killian muttered something in the hostess's ear.
She paled.
And then we were outside — slammed by cold air and flashing headlights.
He opened the passenger side of a blacked-out SUV.
I didn't move.
"Last chance," I said. "Kiss me or kill me."
He didn't even blink.
He picked me up.
Threw me into the car.
Slammed the door shut behind us.
And that's when I realized.
This wasn't a rescue.
This was a kidnapping.
"You're out of your goddamn mind," he growled once the SUV peeled away from the curb.
I kicked off my heels and pulled the coat tighter around me.
"You didn't have to carry me."
He didn't answer.
"Seriously," I said. "You act like I just assassinated your president."
"You are the president's daughter," he snapped.
"And you're not my handler."
"No," he said. "I'm the man who's going to keep you alive whether you like it or not."
I leaned forward. "Alive from what, Killian? A few gossip blogs? A slow-news-day scandal? Get a grip—"
He slammed on the brakes.
The car jerked to a stop.
His arm flew across my chest, holding me in place.
And then he looked at me.
Really looked at me.
And the ice in his eyes melted just enough to show the fire beneath.
"You think this is about your image?" he said, voice low. "You think this is about bad press and bruised egos?"
My pulse kicked.
"There was a man at that lounge who wasn't supposed to be there."
I stilled.
"Who?"
He leaned in.
"Do you remember a senator named Marshall Keen?"
I blinked. "The one who went missing?"
"Presumed dead," Killian corrected. "Two years ago. After your father exposed his side dealings with foreign arms."
My stomach dropped.
"You're telling me he's not dead?"
"I'm telling you," Killian said, "that man sitting in the corner near your booth looked a lot like him. And if that's true? You just walked into a lion's den wearing perfume and a death wish."
We were quiet for the rest of the drive.
At least, he was.
Me?
I was screaming on the inside.
Not because I was afraid.
But because I wasn't sure anymore which game I was playing.
And worse — who was really playing me.
When we pulled into the mansion's back entrance, Killian didn't speak.
He just opened my door and helped me out.
But his grip on my waist lasted a second too long.
His thumb brushed bare skin.
And I didn't pull away.
He looked at me.
Not like I was his assignment.
Like I was his problem.
His temptation.
His undoing.
We got inside.
He turned to leave.
I grabbed his arm.
"You don't get to just disappear."
He didn't look at me. "Go to bed, Pheobe."
"Killian."
His jaw clenched.
"I'm not sorry," I said.
He turned.
And then he whispered something I'll never forget.
"You will be."
Then he walked off into the dark.
And this time… I wasn't sure he was coming back.