Instead, there’s just this suspended quiet.
My thoughts spiral anyway. Is this why I’m leaving? Is this the moment he decides I’m more trouble than I’m worth?
The logic of that should steady me. I’m not his friend. I’m not even someone he knows. I’m here because he put me here. Trust was never part of the arrangement.
Still, I catch the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers tighten once around the photos before easing again. Whatever he’s holding back feels heavier than whatever he’s considering doing.
I’m not afraid of him. That’s what unsettles me most.
I feel evaluated. Repositioned. Like he’s recalibrating where I fit now that something shifted between us.
Then he tosses the photos onto the bed.
The sound is soft. Careless, almost. It lands harder than if he’d hurled them across the room.
“You’re going home,” he says.
His voice is even, but there’s a strain under it now, pulled tight like something held too long. “I don’t need this right now.”
The words shut something down inside me with a finality I wasn’t prepared for. Not an argument. Not a threat.
A line.
I look at the photos scattered across the bedspread, unsettled by the sense that something just closed, even if I can’t name what it was.
“Get your things,” he adds. “Leave mine where you found them.”
The sound is soft. The decision isn’t.
“You’re going home,” he says. “I don’t need this right now.”
The finality lands hard. Not relief. Not fear. Something quieter and more disorienting, like a door closing that I didn’t realize I was standing in.
My eyes drop to the photos, scattered where they fell. They look abandoned now. Unclaimed.
“Get your things,” he adds. “Leave mine where you found it.”
The drive is silent.
I sit stiffly in the passenger seat, shoulders drawn in, the quiet pressing close from all sides. It reminds me of being a kid after a mistake I couldn’t explain properly, when the punishment wasn’t yelling, just waiting.
I’m not afraid of him. If I were, the tension would be simpler. Fear has edges you can brace against. This feels different. Like I’m sitting beside something contained by force, not absence.
I glance at Ridge from the corner of my eye. His face gives nothing away. His jaw is set, eyes locked on the road. His hands grip the wheel hard enough that the veins in his forearms stand out, the ink there shifting with every small correction. Controlled. Deliberate.
The silence isn’t empty. It’s held.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“I already told you. You’re going home,” he says. “I’m taking you to your father.”
The word settles strangely in my chest.
“That’s abrupt,” I say. “Did I finally do something unforgivable?”
“It’s not about that.”
“Then what is it about?” I press. “You’ve been clear that I’m leverage, so why let me go now?”
