“Rough night?” he rumbled.
I wordlessly rotated my phone screen toward him. He squinted at the text, his thick eyebrows migrating toward his hairline. He released a low, melodic whistle. “Well. That is certainly a definitive way to find out you need deadbolts.”
He was methodical. Front door, rear patio, side entry, garage interface. Fresh tumblers. New, jagged brass keys. Uncompromised codes. By 5:00 a.m., the perimeter was utterly impenetrable. Ethan Jensen was now a trespasser in the only sanctuary he had ever known.
I paid the man, declined a third set of keys, and ascended the staircase. I stripped the linens from the master bed, desperate to banish the lingering phantom of his cologne, and collapsed onto the bare mattress. I plunged into a dreamless, two-hour oblivion.
At exactly 8:00 a.m., the front door shuddered under a barrage of violent, entitled pounding. It was the knocking of a man who still believed access was his birthright.
I jolted upright, disoriented for a fraction of a second before the reality of Vegas and deadbolts slammed back into my skull. I wrapped myself in a heavy robe and descended. Peering through the reinforced glass, I didn’t see Ethan.
I saw two uniformed police officers.
But as I reached for the chain lock, my phone in my pocket erupted in a synchronized, violent spasm of alerts. Not one vibration, but a cascading avalanche of them. Pings, rings, tags, and messages flooding in so fast the device grew warm against my thigh. The war hadn’t ended with the locks; it had just migrated to a new battlefield.
Chapter 2: The Digital Siege
I cracked the heavy oak door, keeping the brass chain securely taut.
The senior officer, a weathered man harboring the exhausted aura of someone who had dealt with too much domestic absurdity before his morning coffee, cleared his throat. “Ma’am. Dispatch received a call. Your husband alleges you’ve unlawfully barred him from his residence.”
