The next morning, I placed my flash drive on my desk, in plain sight, left the door open, and walked out.

“I’ll be taking the rest of the day off,” I told Rina, dropping some paperwork on her desk on my way out. “My office is open. Miss Van Der Zee, Dean, Vicious, and Jaime are allowed in. Everyone else must stay out.”

It was bait, and I hoped to shit my prey wouldn’t take it.

I was bait, but what I really did was compromise my life to save hers.

I didn’t know why I was doing it. Putting my daughter’s future and my own on the line for this teenager girl. But, for all intents and purposes, my decision was already made. She needed the flash drive, so I gave it to her.

That night, Edie came over after she’d finished work. She made Luna spaghetti and hot dogs—and I let them have their junk. At night, Edie and I fucked hard. In the morning, we fucked soft.

I didn’t mention my encounter with her father, nor leaving the flash drive on my desk, and she didn’t, either.

We took separate cars to work, and of course, I got there first because she took hour-long showers.

I walked into my office with my heart in my throat, only to swallow it down.

The flash drive was gone.

THE FIRST THING I DID when Trent left his apartment, taking Luna and Camila with him since it was Office Tuesday, was run into his bathroom and vomit.

My head was swimming, white dots blurring my vision. Bracing myself with the seat, I slowly got up and limped my way to the sink like an old dog. I washed my hands and face, avoiding the mirror in front of me at all costs. I couldn’t look at myself without throwing up again.

Traitor. Impostor. Judas. Backstabber. Bitch.

Stumbling down the hallway, I leaned against the walls for support. Super dramatic, but I couldn’t help the way I felt. Like the world was collapsing directly on my body, crushing me to dust. How I’d managed to live through the last twenty-four hours, I wasn’t sure.

Yesterday, when I arrived at his apartment, Camila hadn’t been there. Trent had sent her home, telling her she wasn’t needed that night. I’d cooked Luna’s food for her on autopilot, burning myself on the stove twice and making frequent trips to the bathroom to wash my face and take deep breaths.

Dinner had been fine. I’d filled in the voids telling Luna more about surfing and things I’d read about seahorses. I told her about my brother, how I hoped one day I could take him to the beach. She’d seemed to understand. She looked like she had, anyway.

At night, I crawled into his bed, stealing what I no longer deserved. His kisses, his caresses, his body brushing against mine. I stole his heat, and the strokes of his tongue, and the thrusts of his cock. I stole his lust, for it was no longer mine. I enjoyed the pain I earned and the pleasure I didn’t. And in the morning, I asked for another round, knowing full well that this afternoon—when I’d give the flash drive to my father—it’d all be over for us.

“This time, I want us to go slow.” I’d writhed beneath him, under my dark knight with chipped armor, who’d let me crawl into the broken cracks of his shell and settle in, even though he’d known who I was. The Trojan Horse.

“Why slow?”

“So I can remember.”

“Why would you forget?”

Silence. He’d kissed away my tears, knowing exactly what I wasn’t saying, but not wanting to believe it. He’d made this sacrifice for me—that much was sure. He’d let me break him, and I had. Without blinking, or hesitating, or even stopping to think about it.

He moved on top of me like I was wave, filling my body, my core, and my soul. Stroking my cheeks, kissing my eyes. “My girl, my obsession, my Tide.”

It sounded like a goodbye, which only made me cry harder, clutching him like an anchor. Trent knew, and at six in the morning, half an hour before Luna woke up, we’d done the closest thing to making love, knowing that by the end of the day, that love would turn into hate.

My father’s office door was open.

It made everything so much more final. If I passed by, he’d call me in. He’d ask about the flash drive. I would have to give it to him, then everything would be over.

Luna.

Trent.

Seahorses.

Tide.

The ocean was stormy that day. Bane had left me a message at half past six in the morning when Trent was in the shower.

Don’t even bother coming down. Black flag.

He hadn’t known I could literally see the flag waving from my spot, at Trent’s window, in his bedroom, butt naked, my hand pressed against the glass. The waves crashed and the wind wailed. It was the weirdest weather for August in California, but as a surfer, I wasn’t surprised.