He's just stressed, I tell myself. He doesn't know what happened. This must be my fault for worrying him. Because who just takes off and doesn't give any explanation about where they're going?
But it feels like the echo of the way I used to think, not what I actually believe now.
If I just explained—if I justtoldhim…
No. What can I say?I was kidnapped by a man, but he actually takes care of me. He’s been very gentle and kind to me, and I hurt my ankle trying to get away.
Well, that's going to come out wrong.
I swallow hard and fidget with a little sugar packet on the table in front of me, flicking it with my finger.
A shadow looms nearby. I blink, and my head jerks up, but it's only the waitress back with a thick slice of apple tart on a plate.
“Here,” she says quietly. “This is on the house. I thought you'd like this.” Then she leaves.
This woman actually thinks I'm hurt. She thinks I'm nursing heartache. She doesn't know I'm free, that I escaped. She doesn't know that I…
I press my palms to my eyes.
Then why do I feel like I broke up with somebody?
Why do I feel like somebody broke up with me?
I stare at the tart. Golden crust, cinnamon-sugar glaze, the apples soft and glistening. It smells like comfort, like safety, like something Ashland would have made for me on a cold morning.
Marcus would make a comment, something about carbs, about my figure, about the wedding dress fitting properly. Something wrapped in concern that's really just… control.
That’s what it is, isn’t it?Control.
I grab the fork, and I take a bite.
It's fucking delicious.
I take another. And another. Each bite feels like rebellion, like reclaiming something. The sweetness dissolves on my tongue, and I close my eyes, savoring it.
When I open them, I catch the waitress watching me from behind the counter. She gives me the smallest nod, like she knows exactly what this moment means.
I finish every last bite.
As I push the plate away, a long, sleek black car pulls up out front.
Ashland hasn’t come.
He didn't come running after me.
He hasn't chased me.
But neither does… Marcus.
One of Marcus's men walks into the diner, staring around the place with disdain, his lips turned in a downward frown.
“Miss White,” he says, lifting two fingers and gesturing for me to come. “Mr. Crowning is waiting in the car. Let's go.”
He scowls at the empty dessert plate andthe cold coffee. He reaches into his pocket and throws some bills on the table.
And all I can think of as I leave is…
What have I done?
