Prologue:
I know I’m dreaming before I admit it.
The alley outside The Velvet Thirteen glows too bright, the neon bleeding like watercolor. Delilah steps out ahead of me, looking exactly as she did that night — skin and bones in a fur coat, wired, smiling like she’s trying to hold herself together with charm alone.
“Long time,” she says, nudging me.
“Yeah,” I answer. “Too long.”
We walk, but our footsteps make no sound. The bottle cap she kicks doesn’t clatter; it just glides across the pavement like it’s weightless.
Then she stops. Turns. Looks at me with that fragile, searching expression.
“Theodore… do you think I sold my soul to the Devil?”
I laugh, but the sound feels wrong—too loud, too hollow.
“No. Delilah, come on.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” I shake my head. “You didn’t sell your soul to anybody. You just need the right guy. And I’m not him.”
“You were, once.”
“I loved you,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean I was the right one.”
She nods like she already knew.
“I’m gonna get help. For real this time. I’m tired of waking up feeling like I’m dying.
“You deserve better,” I tell her. “You always did.”
She steps closer, eyes glassy. “I hope you find love again. Not with Katherine. Or Marissa. Not Jenna, Lily, or Sabrina. Cherry. The Velvet waitresses’.”
“Delilah…” The word drags out of me, half‑warning, half‑plea.
“The real kind,” she says, a soft, broken giggle slipping out as she finally stops rattling off ex‑lovers like old receipts she’s tired of counting.
Before I can respond, the world shifts—like a film reel skipping frames.
Suddenly we’re inside The Velvet Thirteen again, though we never walked back in. A TV glows above the bar, the new anchor’s voice booming like it’s coming from inside my skull:
“William Hewitt was awaiting trial before his escape. The trial of the century, some were calling it—public interest higher than anything since the trial and execution of Ted Bundy. The similarities are impossible to ignore. A statewide manhunt is currently underway, urging residents to remain vigilant and report any suspicious activity immediately. More updates to follow as this story develops.”
Delilah doesn’t look at the screen. She looks at me.
“Truth. Don’t forget me,” she whispers.
I didn’t know it then, but that was the last time I’d ever see her alive. Three weeks later, the call came.
Overdose. Gone. Just like that.
I reach for her, but my hand passes through her like smoke. She smiles—small, sad, familiar—and then she turns the corner and dissolves into the dark.
My eyes snap open.
The dream fades into the glow of the television across the room. I lie with Emma curled against me, still asleep, her brown hair brushing my chest. The familiar news anchor’s voice cuts through the quiet.
I scoff, reaching for the remote. The screen goes black. Emma stirs, murmuring softly. I trail kisses down her shoulder.
She exhales, sinking back into sleep. I hold her close as the first light of the LA hills spills through the window, painting the room in gold.
I whisper, staring at the golden view
“I found the one, Delilah.”
Not Katherine.
Not Marissa.
Not Jenna, Lily, Sabrina or Cherry.
Not anyone who came before.
Emma.
I was thanking Delilah because she led me here. She wanted better for me, even when she couldn’t find it for herself.
I hope she’s found peace somewhere—afterlife, next life, whatever comes after this. I hope she’s warm. I hope she’s free. I hope she finally stopped feeling like she was dying.
Emma shifts closer, and I close my eyes, sending that hope out into the quiet, hoping it reaches Delilah wherever she is.
