Victor’s hands flexed on the steering wheel. “She said you hadn’t brought anyone home in years. That I must be special.”
“Oh God.”
“And that if I hurt you, she knows where to hide a body where even the health inspectors won’t look.”
Ava covered her face with both hands. “Of course she did.”
“Your parents are wonderful.”
“They’re a lot.”
“I like that.” He glanced at her, then back at the road. “Your mother is protective. It’s nice. To see what that looks like.”
They drove in silence. Inside the car, the Lilith revelation sat between them like a third passenger.
“Fifteen years,” Ava said. “She’s been watching my family for fifteen years.”
“I know.”
“Before I even knew what I wanted to do with my life. Before law school. Before any of this.” Her voice cracked. “She showed my mom my report cards, Victor. She asked about me.”
“I know.”
“What does she want? What’s worth fifteen years of planning?”
He stared straight ahead, jaw tight. “I don’t know yet. But I’m going to find out.”
“The retreat…”
“We’ll handle the retreat. And then we’ll handle Lilith.” His knuckles went white on the wheel. “I won’t let her hurt your family, Ava. Whatever she’s planning, we’ll stop it.”
She believed him.
“You meant it,” she said after another block. “What you said to my father. About love.”
“Every word.”
“The part about wanting a life beyond work?”
“Especially that part.” His voice had gone rough. “I’d forgotten what it felt like. To want what can’t be won or acquired or negotiated.”
“Victor…”
He pulled over abruptly, tires squealing as he found a spot along a darkened street. The engine cut off. Silence rushed in.
“I need to—” He stopped. Started again. “I need you to know that whatever happens with Lilith, whatever she’s planned—this is real. You and me. It stopped being fake the moment you stood up to her at that dinner party.”
“Victor.”
“Maybe before that. Maybe from the beginning, if I’m honest.”
Then he was kissing her.
Hard. Desperate. His hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back, and she made a sound against his mouth that might have been his name. He tasted like green tea and sesame, and underneath that, something darker: smoke and cedar and the particular heat of him.
The console between them was deeply inconvenient. She tried to shift closer and knocked over the leftover containers. Something that smelled like black bean sauce spilled. Neither of them cared.
“Back seat,” she gasped against his mouth.
