"My parents are dead," I say. "Dad died of a heart attack six years ago. Mom got cancer a year later. I have a degree from NYU in library science. I work at Antiquarian Rare Books doing restoration." I pause. "My boss gave me the dress for the gala. It was a networking opportunity. I'm trying to become a curator."
"At the New York Public Library."
I turn to stare at him. "How do you know that?"
"I told you. I make it my business to know things." He glances at me. "You bombed the interview."
My face heats. "I was sick."
"Because you were pregnant."
"I didn't know that then."
"But you know it now." He turns onto a familiar street. We're getting close. "What about friends? Other family besides Gabriel?"
"No." The word comes out small. "It's just been Gabe and me since our parents died."
"No boyfriend? No one who'll report you missing?"
The question feels loaded. I almost lie, but I remember how he seems to know everything, and I don't see the point. "My boss, but otherwise, no."
"Good."
Something about the way he says it makes my skin prickle. "Why is that good?"
He doesn't answer. Just pulls into a private garage beneath The Palazzo.
The building is exactly as I remember it. All marble and gold and luxury that feels alien. Adrian uses a keycard to access a private elevator.
We ride up in silence. I watch the numbers climb. Higher than the guest floors. Higher than should be possible.
The doors open directly into his penthouse.
I remember this space. The floor-to-ceiling windows. The sleek furniture. The place where I stopped being Seraphina Romano and became someone else for one night.
Someone reckless and free and stupid.
If I could go back, I'd slap myself.
The parking garage is silent except for our footsteps. Adrian's hand stays on my lower back as we walk to the private elevator—not guiding, just claiming. Reminding me I'm his now.
"This way," Adrian says, his hand on the small of my back.
I expect him to show me to a guest room. Somewhere I can lock the door and try to process everything.
Instead, he leads me to his bedroom.
"I'm not sleeping with you," I say immediately.
"You're injured. You need to be monitored." He pushes open the door. The bed is enormous. Black silk sheets. "This is non-negotiable."
"I can sleep on the couch?—"
"You're not sleeping on the couch." He guides me into the room with that same careful pressure. Not forcing. Just making it clear he won't be argued with. "Sit."
I perch on the edge of the bed, ready to bolt if he tries anything.
He doesn't. Just moves to a dresser, pulls out a t-shirt. "You can sleep in this."
