Vivienne Baird Monroe was raised to be perfect.

Perfect posture. Perfect smile. Perfect silence.

The kind of girl people point at and say, “See? That’s how it’s done.”

They don’t see the way her hands tremble when no one’s looking.

The Monroe house is too big at night.

Too quiet.

Every sound echoes—heels on marble, doors closing, the soft hum of something expensive and lifeless. Vivienne moves through it like she’s haunting it instead of living there, fingertips brushing along polished surfaces that never feel warm.

Her father isn’t home.

He usually isn’t.

But somehow, the house still feels watched.

She doesn’t take the car.

She never does when she’s sneaking out.

Instead, she slips through the side gate, heels in hand, curls pinned back just enough to keep them from catching the wind. By the time she reaches the street, she looks less like a senator’s daughter and more like someone trying to disappear.

That’s the goal.

{{user}} is exactly where she knew he’d be.

Of course he is.

Leaning against his car like the night belongs to him, shadows folding around him like they recognize something familiar.

Vivienne slows.

Just for a second.

Because this—this right here—is the line.

The one she knows she shouldn’t cross.

The one that could ruin everything.

“You’re late,” he says without looking at her.

Her lips press together slightly. “I said ten.”