"No, ma'am. I have the correct address."
"But we're going in the wrong direction—"
"Mrs. Hill was very specific about the destination."
My pulse kicks up. "Where are we going?"
He doesn't answer, but ten minutes later, we pull up in front of a building I recognize.
Donovan's building.
"This is wrong," I say. "I'm supposed to sign paperwork at the office—"
"Mrs. Hill is waiting for you inside. Penthouse level."
He opens my door, and I have a choice.
Get back in the car and go home, or face whatever the hell this is.
I choose the latter.
Because I'm tired of avoiding. Tired of pretending I'm fine when I'm falling apart.
And if Donovan wants to ambush me at his penthouse? Fine. We'll have this out once andfor all.
The lobby is all marble and understated wealth. The elevator requires a keycard, which the doorman provides with a knowing smile that makes me want to punch him.
The ride up is silent except for my pounding heart.
When the doors open directly into Donovan's penthouse, Margaret is waiting.
"Emma." She smiles warmly. "Thank you for coming."
"Where's the paperwork?"
“It’s…not here.”
I stare at her. "You lied to me?"
"I creatively reinterpreted the truth." She steps aside. "Come in. Please."
"Margaret—"
"Emma. Just come in."
Against my better judgment, I do.
The penthouse looks exactly as I remember—floor-to-ceiling windows, sleek furniture, thekitchen where we made pasta and then had sex on the counter.
I push that memory away.
"Where's Donovan?"
"He's here. But first—" Margaret gestures toward a hallway I've never been down before. "I need to show you something."
"I'm not in the mood for games—"
"It's not a game. I promise."
