Page 106 of Damsel in Disguise

Things done.

Things I shouldn’t be thinking about as much as I am.

The email Alistair sent me the following morning of escaping is persistently burning somewhere in the back of it all.

Nice try.

Two words. That’s all he sent.

No threats. No follow-up. No explanation.

I didn’t reply. Neither did he.

And somehow, that feels worse than anything else he could’ve said.

Right now, I’m in the backseat of a car, my head tipped against the cool glass of the window. The faint vibration of the engine hums through my skull.

It feels soothing for the headache.

A cup of coffee rests loosely in my hand, its warmth long faded. My eyelids feel impossibly heavy. Keeping them open requires effort—I’m not sure I have any left anymore.

Out of pure boredom, I booked a flight on my way back. I’m still surprised I was bored amidst everything that’s been happening.

The car slows, then stops at the main entrance of the CynoTech HQ. The door opens before I can reach for it.

“Miss Keinston,” Strad, Adrian’s butler, stands on the other side, composed as ever, his hand extended toward me.

I take it, letting him steady me as I step out. My body betrays me in small ways—stiffness, a slight imbalance—but I mask it before it becomes too obvious.

I follow him inside, my steps quieter than usual against the polished floor. There’s a part of me—small, sharp, irrational—that hopes I won’t run into Asher here.

It’s the exact reason I asked Adrian to meet me anywhere else. Neutral ground. Somewhere without complications.

But Adrian doesn’t bend for anyone’s convenience. And the thing he did for me—finding out whatever he dug up about Alistair—is already beyond expectations.

We ascend through the elevator to reach his floor in utter silence.

Strad stops in front of the giant oak door. He knocks twice, then twists the handle, pushing the door. He steps aside, letting me pass.

“Hi,” I raise my hand for a small wave, then bring it back down because Adrian doesn’t look up immediately.

His attention stays on the desktop in front of him, posture relaxed in a way that isn’t relaxed at all.

Only when I step fully inside does his gaze flicker toward me before returning to whatever held it before.

The office hasn’t changed. Floor-to-ceiling glass. City spilling out beneath like something he owns. Clean lines. Controlled space. No clutter. No distractions.

Just power, dressed as minimalism.

The door clicks shut. Only then does he look at me properly.

His gaze moves once, taking everything in. The lack of luggage. The fatigue. Barely concealed strain in the way I’m holding myself.

“Well, hello to you too, Ariella.”

I give him a small smile.

Something unreadable flickers in his expression. It’s gone before I can grasp it.