Chapter 1

I sat handcuffed to a cold, metal chair, forced to watch the performance of a lifetime.

"It was him! I swear to God!"

Brielle Vane was sobbing, her shoulders shaking violently as she pointed a manicured finger straight at my face. "He kept staring at me through the rearview mirror... with those creepy, dead eyes. And then... then he tried to grab my thigh!"

Sergeant Cole, the stern-faced officer taking her statement, frowned deeply. He turned his gaze toward me, disgust radiating from him like heat.

To him, I wasn't a victim. I was just another scumbag—a tanned, buzz-cut male driver in cargo pants who couldn't keep his hands to himself.

"Officer," I started, my voice gravelly from holding back rage. "I didn't—"

"Shut your mouth!" Brielle screamed, her voice cracking into a high-pitched wail that pierced my eardrums. "You harassed me, and you still have the nerve to speak? If I hadn't fought back... if I hadn't screamed..." She choked on a fake sob, burying her face in her hands. "I would have lost my dignity right there in his car!"

Her wailing echoed off the sterile walls of the interrogation room. It was deafening.

Bang!

Sergeant Cole slammed his hand on the desk. "Quiet! This is a police station, not a circus." He glared at me. "Behave yourself. Where is your ID?"

I shifted my weight, intending to reach into my back pocket.

Suddenly, Brielle lunged.

She threw herself at me, grabbing my wrist with a grip like iron claws. "Don't move! Officer! He has a knife! He threatened me with a knife in the car!"

Instinct took over. I yanked my hand back, disgusted by her touch. "Are you out of your mind? I'm getting my ID!"

"Ahh! He hit me! The pervert hit me!"

Brielle threw herself backward as if shot. She collapsed onto the linoleum floor, clutching her stomach and writhing in agony. "My stomach... oh god, he punched me!"

It was a flop worthy of an NBA foul. If she weren't trying to ruin my life, I would have applauded her acting skills.

"That's enough!" Sergeant Cole leaped to his feet, hand hovering over his belt. "Sit down! Now!"

Two other officers rushed in, slamming heavy hands onto my shoulders, pinning me painfully against the chair. It felt like my collarbone might snap.

"I didn't touch her," I gritted out through clenched teeth, my eyes burning with suppressed fury. "I don't have a knife. I was getting my identification to prove I'm innocent."

Meanwhile, Brielle lay on the floor, peeking through her spread fingers to check if the cops were buying it. When she saw me restrained, she wailed louder. "I can't live like this! Being violated by trash like him... I might as well be dead!"

I closed my eyes, piecing it together. This wasn't a panic response. This was a setup. A calculated, malicious trap.

I’d been a ride-share driver for three years. I’d seen drunks, weirdos, and jerks. But never a predator like this.

It had started two hours ago. Brielle had gotten into my car reeking of cheap perfume that made my eyes water. We hadn't gone a mile before she lit a cigarette.

My car was a strictly non-smoking zone. I politely asked her to put it out. She ignored me, flicking ash onto my pristine leather seats. When I pulled over and told her the ride was over, she snapped.

She screamed, snapped my phone mount in half, and threw her scalding coffee all over me. Then, she tore her own shirt, messed up her hair, and sprinted out the door screaming "Help!" to a crowd of bystanders who nearly flipped my car in their rush to be heroes.

And now, here I was. My leather seats were ruined, my reputation was hanging by a thread, and I was being framed by a psychopath.

"Officer, he is a blight on society! You have to lock him up!"

Seeing that I was thoroughly subdued by the police, Brielle’s miraculous recovery began. She stopped writhing. The tears vanished instantly. She stood up, brushed the dust off her skirt, and marched up to Sergeant Cole with the confidence of a woman who had already won.

Her stomach didn't seem to hurt anymore. In fact, she looked positively energized.

She slammed her hand on the desk, looking down at me with a sneer.