But just as I reached the door, my phone buzzed. A message from Caleb flashed across the screen:
'Get back here.'
I hesitated, my hand hovering over the door handle.
Another buzz, and this time, a picture appeared. My stomach dropped as I opened it. The photo showed Caleb's hand gripping my mother's urn, casually dangling it over the edge of a tall building, ready to drop it at any second.
Panic surged through me as I looked up, scanning the area. Across from the party, in the building opposite, I spotted him.
Caleb stood there, one hand in his pocket, the other holding my mother's urn, watching me with that same cold, detached expression.
He had seen how I'd been humiliated, my failed attempt to escape, and ultimately, my surrender.
Still, he showed absolutely no concern.
I returned to the party feeling like I was trudging through quicksand.
Before I could gather my thoughts, a pot-bellied man slithered up to me.
"Miss Dawson, feeling a little tipsy? How about I take you to a hotel? You smell amazing," he said, his voice oily and breath reeking as his hand landed on my neck, slowly sliding down.