For one terrible second, she looks trapped.The light goes out in her eyes, replaced by the look of a bird hitting a window.I’ve just backed her into a corner she can't escape, and for a heartbeat, I hate myself more than I hate Ortega.
Then the actress takes over.She’s good.Too good.She smiles like this is the answer to every prayer she’s ever breathed.
“I will,” she says, her voice bright and high.
She extends her hand, admiring the stone, playing the part of the blushing bride-to-be for the tourists.It’s a golden moment—a performance I wish Marquez could see.
As she smiles, I feel the weight of what I just did sitting heavy in my gut.I’ve asked her to take the one thing she holds sacred—a covenant—and turn it into a tactical maneuver.
It wasn’t Marquez who forced her into this desecration.It wasn’t Ortega.
It wasme.
And if her God doesn’t come through, this is a performance she’ll have to repeat in forty-eight hours.
Only next time, it’ll be in front of a priest, and she'll have to swear that she loves the man I’m only pretending to be.
Adena
I shift gears, throttle down as we hit the city limits, and the weight shifts with the movement—foreign, intrusive.The metal catches on my glove, pulls at the leather in a way that makes me hyperaware of it with every twist of my wrist.
My hand is rejecting it.I could have rejectedhim.Should have.The couple was barely paying attention, already moving past.There was no tactical need to say yes, no reason to let him slide that ring on my finger.
So why didn't I?
The fury rises hot in my chest—at him for putting me in this position, at myself for letting him.
I twist the throttle harder.
The Harley surges forward, engine snarling.The speedometer climbs—fifty, sixty, seventy.Wind slams into me, whipping my hair back, stealing my breath.My pulse pounds in rhythm with the engine.
Jagger glances back, sees me coming.
He opens up his throttle.
Good.
We rocket through the outskirts, side by side now, engines screaming in competition.A car honks as we weave around it.Another swerves.I don't care.I need this—the speed, the danger, the way it drowns out everything I can't afford to think about.
The streetlights blur into ribbons of gold.My thighs grip the seat, body low and aerodynamic, every muscle coiled tight.
Jagger edges ahead at a red light—doesn't stop, just blows through it.I'm right behind him, adrenaline spiking as I clear the intersection, the thrill of it sharp and electric in my veins.
We hit Canal Street doing eighty.
A delivery truck pulls out—too close, too sudden.
I slam the brakes, drop a gear, cut hard right.The truck's mirror misses me by inches.My knee nearly kisses asphalt as I lean into the turn.Then I'm through, heart hammering, hands vibrating on the grips.
Jagger's ahead, but not by much.
I crank the throttle wide open.
The Harley lunges forward like she's been shot from a cannon—ninety, ninety-five.The world compresses into pure speed and focus.
The Quarter rushes at us—narrow streets, pedestrians scattering, chaos.We should slow down, should be smart.
I don't want to be smart.
