The words don't register at first. Not fully. I glance uncertainly at Mom.
"Oh," Mom breathes, her face lighting up instantly. "That's so generous?—"
My eyes shoot back to Gabe. "What?"
His gaze doesn't waver. "Everything's handled," he repeats. "The arrangements. The service. The burial."
My chest tightens. Something in me recoils. Because that, that's not help. That's control.
"I can't accept that," I press my lips together.
His jaw shifts slightly. "You don't have to accept anything. It's done."
That makes it worse. "Gabe?—"
"Audra," he cuts in, quieter now, but firmer. "You're not in a position to be worrying about logistics."
My eyes narrow. "And what position is that?"
He returns my gaze like a challenge. A dangerous one. His eyes hold mine. Steady. Unyielding.
"The one where people are still trying to kill you," he reminds me.
I freeze. He's right about that.
Out of the corner of my eyes, I see Mom looking between us, and confusion flickers across her face. But I don't break eye contact. Because now we're not talking about funerals. We're talking about control. About decisions. About who gets to make them.
"You don't get to just take over my life," I state, quieter now, but no less firm.
His expression doesn't change. "I'm not taking it over," he contradicts. "I'm keeping you alive."
The words land. Hard and final. Because he's right. That's not the worst, though. The worst is that a small, traitorous part of me—the same part that stood in that warehouse, the part that held that gun, the part thatfelt aliveagain—understands exactly what he means.
That part doesn't argue. That part doesn't push back. That part… leans toward him. I hate it. I hate that I understand him. I hate that a part of metrustshim. My toes cross inside my shoes, like I'm holding on to something. Because if I let go—if I let him pull me into his world the way he clearly intends to—I don't know if I'll ever find my way back out again.
I'm not entirely sure I want to.
The next day…
… seems entirely planned by Gabe to pull me deeper into him. First, there is a knock on the door, followed by a string of giggling women, pulling and pushing carts into the room. My curiosity feels like slowly bursting bubbles under my skin. Whatever is in the carts, it's hidden underneath silky black blankets.
One woman pulls me to the side. "Mrs. Hale?" She doesn't wait for my nod. "I'm Jacky. Mr. D'Amato hired me."
Before I realize what's happening, she has gently maneuvered me into the kitchen part and stationed herself so I can't really see into the living room area, from where the subdued sounds of hangers clinking on aluminum rods and more giggling emerge.
"Hired you?" I ask, trying to peek around her.
"He has plans to take you out tonight and instructed me to provide you with suitable clothes," she fills me in.
Has he now?
Before anger can win over curiosity, I hear my mom's voice. "What is—Oh my!"
"I think they're ready." Jacky guides me back into the room as unobtrusively as she guided me out.
And then the sheer sight of the living room area transformation makes me forget about any anger that might have simmered in me over Gabe's presumptuousness that I would go on a date with him.
He brought an entire boutique here.
