She instinctively scanned the room. Ruby was gone too.
Moments later, her phone vibrated.
A message from Ruby.
It was a screenshot of a chat.
In the image, Ruby had sent a photo—her bare back exposed, the zipper at the bottom of her dress left teasingly undone.
Beneath it, a message: [Mr. Warhol, my zipper won’t go up. Can you help me?]
Grayson’s forwarded response was brief: [Location?]
Then came another message: [He couldn’t even wait until he got to the restroom. People were walking by outside. The thrill of it all—he took me twice. My legs can barely hold me up. That’s something you’ll never be able to give him.]
[Oh, and we didn’t use protection. We’ve lost count of how many times we haven’t. He said that if I get pregnant, I should keep the baby. Who knows, maybe I already have his baby growing inside me.]
Violet closed her eyes and pressed a hand against her chest, trying to dull the ache.
He really couldn’t even wait a few hours?
Her phone vibrated again.
She assumed it was another of Ruby’s taunts, but when she looked, it was a message from the agency handling her fake death.
“Miss Hudson, your new identity is ready. We’ve booked your flight to the UK for five days from now, departing at 6 p.m. We need you to confirm if you’re proceeding with the plan.”
She turned on her camera and recorded a short video of herself.
“I confirm the departure.”
Just as she was done, a panicked voice sounded behind her.
“What do you mean, leaving? Are you leaving, Violet?”
