(Elena pov)

  I twisted the dolr bill between my trembling fingers, the edges crinkling as I stared at the thin yer of white powder scattered across the worn wooden table.

  A faint breeze slipped through the cracked window of the house, stirring the dust and making the powder shimmer slightly, like fresh snow under a streetlight.

  Leaning down, I pressed the tightly rolled bill to my nostril, the paper rough against my skin. I dragged it along the jagged line of coke, inhaling sharply.

  The burn hit instantly, a searing rush that cwed its way up my sinuses and exploded in my skull. My heart kicked into overdrive, pounding against my ribcage as the high surged through me.

  This—this was the only thing that made the numbness retreat, the only thing that dragged me back from the edge of nothing.

  Drugs were my tether. Everything else, especially the thought of Miguel, churned my stomach until I wanted to retch.

  "Why..." I muttered under my breath, my voice barely a rasp as I stared at the pitiful specks of powder left on the table. That was it. The st of it.

  My fingers twitched, and a creeping itch started under my skin, like a thousand tiny insects crawling through my veins. I cwed at my arms, nails digging into flesh, dragging red lines across the surface.

  The pain was sharp, grounding, but not enough. Blood welled up in thin streaks, smearing as I scratched harder. "Fuck... this isn't good," I hissed, gncing at my raw, torn skin.

  The high was already fading, leaving behind that hollow ache, the lingering need that gnawed at my bones.

  "Fuck this..." I muttered, my voice raw as I snatched my phone off the table, the cold metal a brief distraction from the gnawing emptiness eating at my core.

  I never imagined being without Miguel for this long would drag me down to this level—a hollow shell, chasing fleeting highs just to feel something. Anything.

  I jabbed at the screen, pulling up Twitter, hoping for some mindless garbage to fill the void for a few minutes.

  As usual, it was a flood of filth. Videos of guys flicking their tongues at the camera, others stroking themselves with sweet and desperate moans. I scrolled past without a second gnce.

  None of them were him. None of them had Miguel's perfect features, his dark hair, his adorable eyes that made me fall in love with him everyday, or the way he slurped my pussy.

  They were all pale imitations, and I hated them for it.

  My thumb froze mid-scroll as a post caught my eye. The account name, "Gore Leaks," fshed in bold, and the caption screamed for attention: "SINALOA CARTEL LEADER, CARLA JUAREZ MURDERS DRUNK CIVILIAN IN BROAD DAYLIGHT WITH BOYFRIEND BESIDE."

  My brows knit together, a mix of curiosity and unease twisting in my gut. I tapped on the post, the screen loading a clear video thumbnail of a mall, figures in the distance.

  A knot formed in my chest as I hesitated for a split second, my finger hovering over the py button.

  Something about it felt off, but the itch in my brain—the same one that drove me to that st line of coke—urged me to see what kind of mess this was.

  The video continued to py on the cracked screen of my phone, the footage capturing every stark detail.

  It showed that towering, muscur woman with chestnut-brown hair, her sharp features framed by a pristine white suit that clung to her powerful frame. She moved with a predatory grace, her jaw clenched as she reached into her holster and drew a sleek, shiny handgun.

  Without hesitation, she aimed at the drunk woman staggering behind her—a frail, disheveled figure in stained clothing, her eyes gssy and unfocused.

  The shots rang out, sharp cracks that echoed through the speakers, and the drunk woman colpsed instantly, hitting the pavement with a sickening thud.

  Blood began to pool around her, a dark crimson stain spreading across the asphalt, catching the dim streetlight in a grotesque shimmer.

  I scrubbed the video back, my thumb dragging the slider to repy the moment, needing to see it again, to understand. I zoomed in, the image pixeting slightly but still clear enough to dissect.

  The drunk woman had lurched forward, her hand outstretched, fingers grazing the butt of the suited woman's boyfriend—a beautiful, handsome guy with a tense expression, standing just behind her, walking away slightly.

  That's when it hit me.

  The person recording had panned to his face, zooming in tight on his sharp features and the flicker of raw emotion in his brown eyes.

  My stomach twisted hard enough to make me stop breathing.

  That face—I knew that face.

  "Miguel."

  There was no doubt. No maybe. No trick of the light. That was him, walking beside her—that woman everyone talked about, the one whose name carried blood and fear with it.

  She stood too close to him. Too confident. Like she already owned him.

  Cold dread crawled up my spine, freezing me in pce.

  My future husband was in the hands of a monster. A murderer. A woman who destroyed lives and smiled while doing it.

  My mind spiraled instantly, grabbing at the worst possibilities. She had to be extorting him. Threatening him. Holding something over his head. Miguel was gentle—too gentle for someone like her. He wouldn't choose this. He couldn't have.

  "Oh god."

  My chest burned as panic turned into rage, heat flooding my veins. I needed him back. I needed to save him before she broke him, before she turned him into something unrecognizable—or worse, before she killed him.

  My hands shook as I dug into my pockets and pulled out my wallet, flipping it open like the answer might be hiding inside. Bills stared back at me, thin and humiliating. Not enough. Nowhere near enough.

  I swallowed hard.

  This meant sacrifices.

  No more drugs. No shortcuts. No numbing myself when it got hard. If I was going to get Miguel back, I needed to be sharp. Focused. Alive.

  This was going to hurt. I knew that already.

  But if suffering was the price for saving him—then I'd pay it.

  —

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