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The cake's still in the cart when Dad hits the pavement.
One second he's reaching for his wallet. Next second there's a crack—loud, flat, wrong—and he's down. The grocery bag splits. Oranges roll everywhere. I'm standing there with my phone half out, birthday text from my roommate still on the screen, and Dad's on his back between our car and some soccer mom's minivan.
Blood's coming fast. Too fast.
"Dad—" I drop next to him. My knees hit something wet. His chest is wrong. The hole's small but the blood's spreading dark across his shirt, and his mouth's opening and closing like he's trying to say something but can't get air behind it.
People are screaming. Someone's yelling call 911. I'm pressing my hands on his chest and the blood's hot, it's so hot it's soaking through my sleeves, and Dad's looking at me like he's trying to make me understand something.
"Don't—" He chokes. Red bubbles at the corner of his mouth. "Don't go home."
"Dad, shut up, don't talk—"
"List." He grabs my wrist. His grip's still strong. That scares me more than the blood. "You're on the list."
"What list? Dad—"
But he's not listening. He's pulling me closer, and I can smell copper and something else, something chemical, and his eyes are too wide.
"Locke," he says.
That's it. One word. Then his hand goes slack.
I'm still holding pressure when the ambulance comes. EMTs have to pry my hands off. There's blood under my nails. My coat's ruined. Someone wraps one of those foil blankets around me and I'm sitting on the curb, shaking, watching them load Dad into the rig.
A cop's asking me questions. I don't hear them. I'm thinking about that name.
Locke.
I know that name. Everyone in this city knows that name if they've been here long enough. Locke Gates. Irongate Family. The kind of people Dad spent seventeen years hiding from after he testified. Witness protection was supposed to keep us safe. New names. New city. New everything.
Apparently it didn't work.
The cop's still talking. I look up. He's older, grey at the temples, and his badge says Murphy.
"Miss, I need you to focus. Did you see the shooter?"
"No."
"Did your father have any enemies? Anyone who'd want to hurt him?"
I almost laugh. It comes out as this broken sound that makes Murphy lean back a little.
"You should ask him that," I say. "When he wakes up."
Murphy's face does something. It's small, just a little tightening around his mouth, but I see it.
"Miss Cash—"
"He's going to wake up," I say. My voice sounds wrong. Too high. "Right?"
Murphy doesn't answer. He looks past me, and his expression changes. Goes flat.
I turn.
There's a car at the edge of the lot. Black. Expensive. Tinted windows. It's just sitting there, engine running, and I don't know why but I can feel it. Someone's watching.
The back door opens.
A guy gets out. Tall. Maybe mid-twenties. Dark suit, no tie, and he walks like he owns the parking lot. Like he owns the whole damn city. His hair's black, pushed back, and even from here I can see his eyes. Grey. Cold.
He looks at me.
Everything goes quiet. I can still hear the sirens, the cops talking into their radios, someone crying by the grocery entrance, but it's like it's all behind glass.
The guy—Locke, it has to be Locke—stops about ten feet away.
"Ivy Cash," he says.
It's not a question. His voice is low, controlled, and I hate that I notice the way he says my name. Like he's been saying it for a while. Like he knows me.
"Who the hell are you?" I'm still sitting on the curb. The foil blanket's sliding off my shoulders. There's blood on my hands and I don't care. "Did you do this?"
"No." He doesn't move. Just stands there, hands in his pockets, looking down at me like I'm a problem he's calculating. "But someone did. And they're not finished."
Murphy steps between us. "Sir, this is an active crime scene. I'm going to need you to—"
Locke doesn't even glance at him. He pulls something from his jacket. A phone. He holds it out.
Murphy looks at the screen. His face goes white.
Then he steps back.
What the hell.
"What did you just show him?" I stand up. The blanket falls. "What—"
"Your father had a deal," Locke says. "With my family. He broke it. Now there's a price."
"A deal? He testified against your family. He put half of them in prison—"
"Seventeen years ago. Before I was old enough to vote." Locke's eyes are steady on mine. "Things change. People make arrangements. Your father made one five years ago when his location leaked the first time. He didn't tell you that, did he?"
I can't breathe.
"You're lying."
"I'm not." He takes a step closer. Murphy doesn't stop him. None of the cops do. They're all pretending to be busy with something else. "The arrangement was simple. He keeps quiet about certain things that happened before the trial. We keep him breathing. He talked. Someone found out. Now the contract's void."
"What things?" My voice cracks. "What did he—"
"That's not your problem right now." Locke's looking at me like he's deciding something. "Your problem is that the people who shot him think you know what he knew. Which means you're next on the list."
The parking lot tilts. I lock my knees.
"So what, you're here to finish the job?"
"No." He pulls out another phone. Different one. He holds it up so I can see the screen.
It's a photo. Me. Leaving my apartment this morning. The timestamp says 7:43 AM.
"If I wanted you dead," Locke says quietly, "you'd be dead. I'm here because I need you alive."
"Why?"
"Because you're going to do something for me."
I should run. I should scream. I should grab Murphy's gun and shoot this bastard in his perfect face.
But I don't.
Because Dad said his name. Last thing he said. Not run. Not hide. Not call the cops.
Locke.
"What do you want?" I hear myself ask.
He almost smiles. It's not a nice smile. It's the kind of smile that says he already won.
"Get in the car," Locke says. "I'll explain on the way."
"On the way where?"
"Somewhere the people who shot your father can't find you." He turns. Starts walking back to the black car. Then he stops. Looks over his shoulder. "You have ten seconds to decide. After that I leave and you're on your own. With them."
He nods toward the street.
There's another car. Grey sedan. It's been circling the block. Slow. I didn't notice before but now I can't stop seeing it. The windows are down. I can see the driver's face.
He's watching me.
Locke opens the car door. "Ten."
I look at Murphy. He won't meet my eyes.
"Nine."
The grey sedan's stopped at the light. Waiting.
"Eight."
Dad's blood is drying on my hands. Cracking when I curl my fingers.
"Seven."
I think about my apartment. My roommate. My summer classes starting Monday. Everything normal. Everything safe.
"Six."
The light turns green. The sedan starts moving toward the lot entrance.
"Five."
Dad said I'm on the list.
"Four."
He said Locke.
"Three."
I'm walking. I don't remember deciding to walk but I'm moving, I'm crossing the parking lot, and Murphy's not stopping me, none of them are stopping me.
"Two."
I reach the car. Locke's standing by the open door, watching me with those cold grey eyes.
"One."
I get in.
The door closes. The locks click. All of them. Locke slides in next to me and the driver pulls out, fast, smooth, and I watch through the tinted window as the grey sedan tries to follow but two more black cars cut it off.
I can't stop shaking.
Locke hands me something. A bottle of water. I don't take it.
"Where are you taking me?"
"I told you. Somewhere safe."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting right now." He unscrews the water and drinks. Like this is normal. Like he picks up blood-covered girls from crime scenes every day. "You need to clean up. There's a bag under the seat. Clothes. Wipes. Change."
I look down. I'm still wearing my jeans and Dad's blood.
"I'm not changing in front of you."
"I'm not asking you to." Locke doesn't look at me. He's typing something on his phone. "We'll be at the house in twenty minutes. You can shower there."
"What house?"
"Mine."
I laugh. It sounds insane. "You think I'm going to your house? You think I'm just going to—what, play prisoner? Wait for you to decide what to do with me?"
"No." Locke finally looks at me. "I think you're going to listen to my offer. And then you're going to say yes."
"What offer?"
He puts the phone down. Turns in the seat so he's facing me fully. Up close he's worse. Sharp jaw. Scar through his left eyebrow. Eyes that don't blink enough.
"You're going to be my fiancée," Locke says. "Three months. Public. Convincing. When it's over and I have what I need, you walk away. Clean. Protected. Alive."
I stare at him.
"You're insane."
"Probably." He doesn't sound bothered. "But I'm also the only reason you're breathing right now. So."
The car turns onto the highway. The city's falling away behind us. I can see the hospital in the distance. Dad's in there. Maybe already in surgery. Maybe already—
No.
"What if I say no?" I ask.
Locke smiles. Same cold smile from the parking lot.
"You won't," he says.
And the terrible thing is, he's right.
Because I don't have anywhere else to go.
The car stops outside a gate. Stone walls. Camera on every corner. The house behind it is huge. Old money. The kind of place that has a name instead of an address.
The gate opens. We drive through.
Locke gets out first. Comes around and opens my door. I don't move.
"I want to see my father," I say.
"Tomorrow. When he's stable."
"How do you know he'll be stable?"
"Because I'm paying for his surgery." Locke holds out his hand. "And his security. And the private room where he'll recover. You want him alive? This is how."
I get out without taking his hand.
The house is worse inside. Marble. Chandeliers. Paintings that probably cost more than my entire college fund. A woman in a black uniform takes my ruined coat without saying anything.
Locke leads me down a hall. Opens a door.
It's a bedroom. King bed. Attached bathroom. Window overlooking some kind of garden.
"This is you," Locke says. "Bathroom's stocked. Clothes in the closet should fit. Dinner's at seven. Don't be late."
He starts to leave.
"Wait." I grab his arm. He stops. Looks down at my hand on his sleeve. I let go. "You said I'm on the list. Who else is on it?"
Locke's quiet for a second.
"Everyone your father loved," he finally says. "Everyone he talked to in the last six months. Everyone he might have told."
"That's a lot of people."
"It was." He meets my eyes. "Most of them are already dead."
My stomach drops.
"How many?"
"Does it matter?" Locke steps back into the hallway. "You're alive. That's what matters. Stay that way."
He closes the door.
I hear the lock click from the outside.
I'm across the room before I think about it, yanking the handle. It doesn't move.
"Let me out!" I bang on the door. "You said I wasn't a prisoner—"
"You're not." Locke's voice comes through the wood. Calm. "But the people looking for you think you are. And if they think you can leave whenever you want, they'll wait for you to leave. This way they know you're locked down. It keeps them guessing how much you matter."
"This is insane—"
"This is survival," Locke says. "Get used to it."
I hear his footsteps walking away.
I sink down with my back against the door. My hands are still shaking. Still bloody. I can smell the copper.
Dad said my name. Don't go home. You're on the list.
Then he said Locke.
Like he knew. Like he expected this.
What the hell did you do, Dad?
I pull out my phone. It's dead. Of course it is. There's a charger on the nightstand but when I plug it in, the phone won't turn on. I press the power button. Nothing.
I check the back. The SIM card's missing.
That bastard. He took it. Probably when I was getting in the car. Or maybe before. Maybe when I was on the curb, wrapped in that stupid foil blanket, and he was standing there talking about deals and lists and—
The door unlocks.
I'm on my feet. It's not Locke. It's a guy I don't know. Younger. Maybe twenty. Blond. He's holding a tray.
"Dinner," he says. His voice is flat. He sets the tray on the table by the window. Steak. Salad. Water. Like this is a hotel. "Boss says eat. You look like shit."
Then he leaves. Locks the door again.
I don't touch the food.
I go to the window instead. Try to open it. It's sealed. I look down. Three stories. Manicured lawn. Stone path. Two guys in suits walking the perimeter.
Guards.
I'm in a cage.
I go to the bathroom. Strip. Stand under the shower until the water runs clear. Dad's blood spirals down the drain. I watch it disappear.
When I come out there's clothes on the bed. Black jeans. Grey sweater. Underwear still in the package. Everything fits.
How long has he been planning this?
I sit on the bed. The mattress is too soft. I hate it.
My phone's still dead on the nightstand. I pick it up anyway. Hold it. Like it's going to magically work.
It doesn't.
I'm thinking about Dad. About the way he looked at me. About the name he said.
About the deal Locke mentioned. The one Dad made five years ago.
Five years. That's when we moved here. When Dad said his company transferred him. When everything was fine. Normal.
Except it wasn't.
There's a knock.
I don't answer.
The door unlocks anyway. Locke steps in. He's changed too. Dark jeans. Black shirt. No jacket. He looks almost normal except for the eyes. Those don't change.
"You didn't eat," he says.
"Not hungry."
"Eat anyway." He crosses to the table. Cuts a piece of steak. Eats it. "See? Not poisoned."
"That's not what I'm worried about."
"Then what are you worried about?" He leans against the wall. Watching me.
"Everything." I stand up. Cross my arms. "You. This place. The fact that you locked me in. The fact that my father's in surgery and I don't even know if he's alive—"
"He's alive," Locke says. "Out of surgery twenty minutes ago. Stable. I'll take you to see him tomorrow."
I want to believe him. I hate that I want to believe him.
"Why are you doing this?" I ask. "What do you need a fake fiancée for? What's the real reason?"
Locke's quiet for a long moment. Then he pushes off the wall. Walks to the window. Looks out at the garden.
"My family has a problem," he finally says. "Internal. Someone wants me gone. If I show up alone to the succession hearing next month, I'm dead. If I show up with a fiancée—someone from outside, someone unexpected—it changes the math. Makes me harder to kill. Harder to dismiss."
"So use someone else. Why me?"
He turns. Looks at me.
"Because you're the daughter of the man who destroyed half my family," Locke says quietly. "Because bringing you into the fold sends a message. Because nobody will believe it's fake, which makes it perfect."
I laugh. It's bitter. "Nobody will believe it because it's insane. Why would I ever agree to this?"
"Because I'm keeping you alive," Locke says. "And because if you do this, I'll tell you what your father was really hiding. The thing that got him shot."
I freeze.
"You know what it is."
"I know everything," Locke says. He steps closer. "I know about the deal. I know about the bombing fifteen years ago. I know about my mother."
His mother.
Something clicks in my head. Wrong.
"What does your mother have to do with my father?"
Locke smiles. That cold, terrible smile.
"That's what you're going to find out," he says. "If you say yes."
He's standing right in front of me now. Close enough that I can see the scar through his eyebrow. Close enough that I can smell his cologne. Something dark. Expensive.
"Three months," Locke says. "Play the part. Smile at the parties. Convince my family you're in love with me. When it's over, you get answers. You get protection. You get your life back."
"And if I say no?"
His smile fades.
"Then I leave you to them," he says softly. "The people who shot your father. The people who are tearing this city apart looking for you right now. I'll open that door and you can walk out and see how long you last."
He moves past me. Opens the door. Stands there. Waiting.
I look at the hallway. Dark. Empty.
I look at Locke. His face is unreadable.
I think about Dad. About the blood. About the name he said.
About the deal he made that he never told me about.
"If I do this," I say slowly, "I want rules. I want boundaries. I want—"
"No," Locke says. "You don't get rules. You get survival. That's the deal."
"That's not—"
"Take it or leave it, Ivy." His voice is flat. Final. "Decide now."
I look at the open door again. The dark hallway. The house beyond. The city somewhere past the gates. The people with guns. The grey sedan. The list.
I look at Locke.
"Fine," I say. "Three months."
He closes the door. Locks it.
And this time when he smiles, it reaches his eyes.
"Welcome to the family," Locke says. "Fiancée."