Marlowe blinks, her lips parting like she was expecting a different answer. Maybe one that would have made it easier to hate me.
I don’t give her more. I turn my gaze back on the road, my grip like steelon the wheel.
Because the last thing I need is her pity.
Chapter Twenty
MARLOWE
“Oh my God.” The question chokes out of me. “Did you kill your wife?” I stare at him wildly, searching his face.
Damian’s grip on the steering wheel doesn’t loosen. His knuckles are white, his shoulders rigid, his eyes locked on the road. He doesn’t immediately say no. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, pressing against my ribs.
Finally, he exhales. “No.”
It should be a relief, but it’s not. Because something is wrong. The way he said it. The weight behind it. The way his jaw tightens like the question alone was enough to set him off.
I swallow hard. “Then what happened?”
He doesn’t answer.
I shift in my seat, my skin itching from the curiosity. “Damian.”
His fingers flex on the wheel. “Drop it.” His voice is low, sharp. A warning.
Of course I ignore it.
“Did someone else kill her?” My voice is quiet now, almost afraid to break the fragile hold he has on himself.
He blinks once, too slow, too heavy. Then finally, his eyes cut to mine, just for a second. And in that second, I see it. The pain. The kind that doesn’t fade. The kind that stays. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Because for the first time since I met Damian, I see something real. And it’s enough to make my breath catch in my throat.
“We aren’t friends, Marlowe.” His tone is cold. His eyes lock back on the road, but the anger pulses off him, a slow-building storm ready to break.
I flinch, but it’s not from fear. It’s from how fast he shut me down.
He exhales, harsh and clipped. “Our time together is almost up. So shut up.”
I stare at him, heat rising to my face. He’s hurting. It’s so obvious now. I find myself wondering who she was. How much of him died with her. My hand drifts to my chest, trying to ease the sudden ache blooming there. The hate I felt earlier, the heat of it, is gone, replaced by something I don’t recognize. I should still be furious with him for being so cruel, for shutting me up like I don’t matter. But part of me needs to know her name, to know who she was, just to understand what it takes to ruin a man like Damian.
His fingers drum against the wheel once, twice, then curl into fists. His breath comes slower now, but the tension still coils thick between us. “I warned you,” he mutters, voice rough, like it’s getting harder to hold it in. “I warned you that I wasn’t good.”
“I remember,” I whisper.
His voice drops even lower. “Now stop talking to me.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and look away. Fine. If he wants to pretend this doesn’t matter, I can too.
Vegas crawls past the window, the city pulsing with lights and movement. The car inches forward, trapped in thick afternoon traffic, the silence stretching between us like anopen wound. I stare out the window, my thoughts unraveling, memories clawing their way up from a place I don’t want to go.
I used to be here all the time. Not by choice.
The underground card games. The thick haze of cigar smoke curling through dimly lit rooms. The heavy weight of my father’s hand on my shoulder as he pushed me forward. Told me to smile. Told me to distract. Told me to be useful.
The memory makes my stomach sour.
I remember the sharp smell of whiskey, the way men would flick their eyes toward me, measuring, like I was just another piece in my father’s game. I remember the words he’d whisper, what he’d expect me to say, what he’d expect me to do. My nose burns. My throat tightens. Oh God, I don’t want to cry anymore. I scrunch my face, swallowing hard, forcing the tears back down.
Damian’s focused on the traffic, thankfully. I turn away from him more, pressing closer to the door. I focus on the flashing neon signs, the waves of tourists stumbling down the sidewalks, the traffic lights flickering red, yellow, green. Anything but the memories clawing at the back of my brain.
