Oliver crouches, grabbing my chin. "Aren't you supposed to love me? Then prove it." I nod, rope my own wrists—loop, loop, dead knot. He smiles. "Drive." Car lurches. Rope snaps taut, drags me behind. Knees scrape asphalt, clothes tear, bone-fire pain as neon blurs. Inside, Scarlett asks, "Won't she hate you?" He smirks. "No. She loves me." Agony sharpens my mind. He doesn't know—I never loved him.
