The morning news cycle was brutal. *The Sentinel*, fed by Cynthia Sharpe’s relentless PR machine, ran the headline: *”Meltdown of a Muse: Is Luna Unfit to Mother?”* The article cited anonymous sources claiming Victoria had been hallucinating fires and hearing phantom music at Croft Manor.
Victoria turned off the television in Dominic’s penthouse, feeling the walls closing in. Even here, thirty floors up, the lies could reach her.
The elevator chimed. It wasn’t Dominic.
Marcus Thorne stepped out, looking as rugged and out of place in the sleek, minimalist penthouse as a mountain bear in a jewelry store. He wore his trademark leather jacket and a scowl that deepened when he saw Victoria.
“Marcus?” Victoria stood up. “How did you get past security?”
“I built this city’s security protocols back when Valerius was still in diapers,” Marcus grunted. He walked over to the window, glancing at the view, then turned his dark eyes on her. “We need to talk, kid.”
“If you’re here to tell me to go back to William–“
“I’m here to tell you to open your eyes,” Marcus cut her off. He gestured to the luxury around them. “You ran from the wolf right into the tiger’s den. You think Dominic Valerius is helping you out of the goodness of his heart?”
“He’s been kind to me,” Victoria defended, though her voice lacked conviction.
“He’s a businessman, Victoria,” Marcus warned, stepping closer. “And right now, you and that baby are the ultimate weapon against the Crofts. He’s not sheltering you; he’s hoarding ammunition. Don’t trade one cage for another just because the bars are made of chrome instead of gold.”
He placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. “You’re strong enough to stand alone. Don’t let either of these men own you.”
He left as abruptly as he arrived, leaving Victoria in the silence of the penthouse, looking at the door Dominic had locked to “keep her safe.” Was it a lock? or a latch?