Finally, the truck rounds the corner.
I take the keys without a word. The cab smells like leather, coffee, and the faint ghost of her from last night. Peppermint and nerves and something softer.
My hands shake when I slot the key into the ignition.
Engine growl. Headlights flare on automatically, cutting twin beams across the parking lot.
And there she is.
Talia is halfway down the row, head down, arms wrapped around herself, thin coat bunched tight at her chest over that blue dress. No Addison. No escort. Just her.
She must have slipped out the terrace doors, looped around, avoided the front entrance on purpose. Smart. Less crowd. Less chance of donors cornering her.
She walks fast but not running. A survivor’s pace again. Get to the car. Get home. Get safe.
The headlights wash over her.
She flinches, shoulders jumping. Her head snaps up, eyes catching mine through the windshield for one split second. Even at this distance, I can see her chest rise in a sharp inhale. Her hand goes to her throat, right where her pulse would be.
She turns her face away. Her steps get faster.
Instinct screams:Go to her. Get out of the truck. Tell her it’s not what it looked like. Tell her about the contract, the money, the leash. Tell her last night was real. That you didn’t kiss back.
But what would that sound like from where she’s standing?
I’m engaged, but it doesn’t mean anything.
I let another woman kiss me in front of my father and a camera, but it didn’t mean anything.
I am part of this machine, but trust me, I’m different.
Bullshit.
The truth is worse than the lie. The truth is that I’ve let myself get boxed into this life so neatly that a girl I care about had to watch me stand there and take it.
I grip the wheel tighter. The tape on my knuckles pulls, biting skin.
She disappears behind a row of cars. I could follow in the truck, idle alongside her, roll down the window and try to explain. I could park, catch up on foot, call her name.
Talia.
I see the way she went still when Beatrice kissed me. How fast she looked for an exit.
If I go after her now, in this state, it’s not protection. It’s pressure. I am the thing she needs to be protected from.
So I sit there. Hands locked. Heart pounding. Watching the empty space where she just was.
The engine idles, rattling under my feet. The headlights glare at nothing.
For once in my life, I stay exactly where I am and let the good thing walk away.
Because I don’t know how to tell her that I’m both things at once—the guy who held himself together with her back under his hands, and the one who choked on silence while another woman kissed him in front of a room full of people who own pieces of his future.
I put the truck in gear and pull out of the lot, leaving the chandeliers and the cameras and the place where she saw the worst version of me behind.
The rink is on the opposite side of town.
I drive toward it like there’s any chance cold air and dark ice can scrub tonight out of both our heads.
