"Just drive, Bianca. Please."
So, I drive.
The neighborhoods get worse the farther we go. Pristine suburbs give way to strip malls, then to blocks of boarded-up buildings and chain-link fences. The sky seems darker here, like the sun gave up trying to reach this part of the city.
"Adrian, what's going on?"
"Work stuff." He doesn't open his eyes. "I just need to take care of something."
“You’re an accountant, not a drug dealer,” I murmur, but he doesn’t say a thing.
The silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating. I glance at Adrian's profile—jaw clenched, eyes still closed, that telltale vein pulsing at his temple that only appears when he's stressed.
Or lying.
"What kind of work stuff?" I press, my fingers tightening on the wheel.
"Just some accounts that need clearing up. Nothing you need to worry about."
But I am worried. Because in three years together, Adrian has never once brought me to a work meeting. Never introduced me to a single colleague. Never even mentioned specific clients by name.
I thought it was because he wanted to keep work and personal life separate. Professional boundaries and all that.
Now, driving through streets that look like they've given up on ever seeing better days, I'm wondering if there's another reason entirely.
"Adrian, if you're in some kind of trouble?—"
"I'm handling it." His voice is sharp, final. "Just trust me, okay?"
Trust him.
The words taste bitter in my mouth, but I swallow them down because what choice do I have?
I grip the steering wheel tighter, my fingers finding the cross pendant again. It's a nervous habit I've had since childhood—whenever I'm scared or angry, I reach for it. Mom used to joke that I'd wear the gold smooth one day.
"Turn here," Adrian says suddenly.
I follow his directions down a street lined with warehouses and auto shops, then into a parking lot in front of a sagging apartment complex that looks like it should've been condemned years ago.
"This is your surprise?" I can't keep the edge out of my voice. "A slum in Newark?"
"Just come inside." He's already opening the door, stumbling slightly as he stands. "It'll make sense. I promise."
It won't. I know it won't. But I'm already here, and turning back now won't answer any of my questions.
I kill the engine and follow him toward the building, praying I won’t have to put my teenage self-defense classes to use.
The hallway reeks of mildew and cigarette smoke. Paint peels from the walls in long strips, and the fluorescent lights overhead flicker like they're trying to give up. Adrian leads me to the third door on the left, then pauses with his hand on the knob.
"Just... don't freak out, okay?"
"Adrian—"
He opens the door.
The apartment is small and dim, curtains drawn against the afternoon light. Smoke hangs thick in the air—cigar smoke, expensive and cloying. There are men here. Four, maybe five, all standing or sitting in positions that feel deliberately casual.
And in the center of the room, standing by the window with his hands in his pockets and his suit so perfectly tailored it looks obscene in this place, is a man who makes my heart stop.
