"Kristen Thomas?" His voice is low.
"That's me."
He rounds the car. His dark eyes scan the street behind me, the windows of my building, the parked cars. All in the span of three seconds.
"I'm Dante." He opens the back door for me. "I'll be your driver for the first few days."
"Thank you." I say.
I slide into the backseat. Dante closes the door with a soft thunk and gets back behind the wheel.
The car pulls away from the curb, and I watch my crumbling apartment building shrink in the side mirror. Good riddance. Except it's not, really. That building has been my fortress for eight months. The first place that was truly mine since I met Jack.
Dante's eyes flick to the rearview mirror. Meeting mine for a split second before returning to the road.
Say something. Make conversation. Be normal.
"So... do you always drive for the family?"
His lips twitch. Almost a smile. "When needed."
Right. Okay. That was illuminating.
I try again. "Have you worked for them long?"
"Long enough."
Wonderful. A conversationalist.
I give up and stare out the window instead. The city slides past—brownstones giving way to nicer neighborhoods, then nicer still. Like watching my old life fade in reverse.
My reflection stares back at me from the tinted glass. Dark circles I couldn't quite cover with concealer. Hair pulled back in a practical ponytail because Jack always hated it down. You look like a mess when it's loose. Like you can't take care of yourself.
After years of hearing that, I still can't wear it any other way.
I was an only child. Raised by a single mother who worked two jobs and still couldn't afford to buy me clothes that fit properly. I remember showing up to school in jeans that were three inches too short, sweaters with sleeves that swallowed my hands. The other kids noticed. Kids always notice.
Nice pants, Kristen. Expecting a flood?
My mother did her best. I know that now. But back then, all I knew was the shame of being the poor kid. The one who broughtpeanut butter sandwiches when everyone else had Lunchables. The one who wore the same shoes until they literally fell apart.
I got good at being invisible. At sliding through life without making waves. At needing nothing from anyone because no one was going to give it to me anyway.
Lucky. That's what I tell myself. Lucky to have survived. Lucky to be sitting in this car, heading toward a job that pays more than I've ever made in my life. Lucky that Lily exists, that she's healthy now, that her heart beats strong and steady after that terrifying surgery.
But luck doesn't fix the broken parts inside me.
I've never had a real friend. Not one. Acquaintances, sure. Coworkers I'd grab coffee with. But someone I'd call at 3 a.m when everything fell apart?
No one.
I built walls so high I forgot there was supposed to be a door.
And then Jack came along. Charming, successful, twelve years older Jack. He didn't knock on my walls. He just walked right through them like they weren't there.
Turns out, being seen by the wrong person is worse than being invisible.
"We're here."
