Chapter 3
The night crept in like a lover—uninvited but irresistible.
Vanessa sat cross-legged on the cold marble floor of her living room, an untouched glass of red wine at her side. Her phone vibrated again. Another message.
Same number. No name.
"Do you remember what you begged me for the night you wore that choker?"
She should block it. She should throw the phone across the room. But her fingers hovered over the screen like they remembered more than she did. Like they were hungry.
And in truth?
They were.
Her body remembered him in a way her mind had buried. It remembered the stretch of his hands, the rough whisper of his voice against her thighs, the way he made her forget her name and beg for his.
Negan.
He'd carved himself into her and vanished.
Until now.
Flashback — The Night After the Kiss
She hadn't gone home. Instead, she returned to the mansion—empty now, except for the ghosts.
And him.
He was waiting in the music room, shirtless, inked with things she didn't have the courage to ask about. His fingers were dusted with ash, and when he looked at her, she felt stripped.
"You came," he said, voice low, uneven.
"I don't know why."
"I do."
He closed the space between them, lifting her hand to his mouth. A kiss. Then another. Then her wrist, her palm, her fingertips.
By the time he reached her mouth, she was trembling.
He didn't kiss her gently.
He devoured her.
Bent her over the grand piano and took everything but her fear. That, he left buried, deep inside.
That was the night she said his name like a prayer.
And he answered like sin.
Back in the present, Vanessa stood too fast, nearly knocking over the glass. Her phone buzzed again.
"You said you liked it when I made you cry. Tell me, little dancer—do you still dance for anyone else?"
Her knees weakened.
She should scream. She should run. But the heat between her thighs betrayed her.
She walked to the mirror.
Looked at herself.
No. Not herself.
The version of her that belonged to him.
And she hated it.
And she wanted it.
Both.
Across Town — Hotel Vanity and Vice
Hailey Thompson leaned against the marble sink in a five-star hotel suite, applying crimson lipstick to already swollen lips.
Camille Simmons stepped behind her, pressing into her back, smirking.
"Your cousin's unraveling," Camille purred. "And you're in bed with the enemy."
Hailey shrugged. "I'm in bed with whoever keeps me fed."
"You mean fucked."
"Same difference."
Camille's hand slipped lower. "Want to make her break faster?"
Hailey's grin was sharp. "I thought you'd never ask."
Elsewhere — A Brother's Burning Jealousy
Back in the Simmons estate, Richard poured a glass of brandy, staring at an old photo.
Vanessa. Smiling. In love.
With him.
Or so he thought.
But Negan had always been the shadow between them. Always the favorite. Always the one with chaos licking at his heels—and still, the one she whispered about in sleep.
He picked up the burner phone from his drawer.
"Begin Phase Two," he said, voice calm, calculated.
Because if Negan thought he could take her back—
He was going to learn the hard way that Richard never let go.
Of anything.
Especially her.