Adrian waits outside while I change, giving me privacy that somehow feels like another form of control. Like he's so certain I can't escape that he doesn't need to watch me.
He's right. I've got nowhere to go, and apparently, a mob family after me.
When I emerge, he's on his phone. Sees me and ends the call immediately.
"Ready?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
The elevator ride down is silent. He stands close enough that I can smell his cologne. That same dark, expensive scent from the gala. It brings back memories I've been trying to forget. His hands on me. His mouth. The way he looked at me like I was the only person in the world.
The way he's looking at me now.
The parking garage is mostly empty. His car is black andsleek and probably costs more than I'll make in five years. He opens the passenger door for me like we're on a date.
I slide in, my body protesting every movement.
He notices. Of course he does. "You should have let Dr. Reeves give you pain medication."
"I don't like drugs."
"You're going to be in pain all night."
"I'll survive." I place my hands on my stomach.
"He said they wouldn't hurt the baby."
I remain silent. He doesn't need to know every secret I have. Luckily, he lets it go, closing the door and walking to the driver's side of the car.
We pull out onto Manhattan streets, and I try to pay attention. Try to mark where we are. But the pain and exhaustion are making everything fuzzy. The engine is lulling me to sleep even as I fight against it.
"Where are we going?" I ask.
"The Palazzo."
The hotel. Where we first met. Where I woke up in his bed and ran.
"You live there?"
"Yes."
I watch the city slide past. People going about their normal lives. Completely unaware that somewhere in this car is a woman who watched a man die today. Who's pregnant by a stranger. Whose brother might have sold her out.
"Tell me about yourself," Adrian says suddenly.
I glance at him. "What?"
"We're having a baby. I should know more than your name and that you work with books."
The surreal nature of this conversation makes me want to laugh. Or cry. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything."
"That's not specific."
"Start with the basics. Family. Education. How you ended up at that gala."
I don't want to talk. Don't want to give him anything. But the silence feels worse somehow.
