Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 65112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
“I’ll call Mr. DeLuca.”
“No,” I say, much too quickly. “Please don’t. I don’t want to wake him if it’s nothing. I’m already anxious enough.”
He hesitates, which is his job, and probably his last decent instinct of the night.
“I can have someone drive you.”
“I don’t need a driver to go to the doctor.”
It comes out too sharp. He notices. I soften my voice before he can think too hard about it.
“I promise I’ll call if something’s wrong.”
He looks miserable as he steps back toward the gatehouse. Then the gate opens, and I drive through before he changes his mind.
The second I’m on the other side, I almost turn around. I’m still furious. That hasn’t changed. I just suddenly understand that getting through the gate was the easy part, and everything after this is me alone with the consequences of my own bad judgment.
Los Angeles is strange late at night. Restaurants spill people onto sidewalks. Valets jog between cars like they’re training for a very stupid marathon. A group of women in tiny dresses laughs outside a club while one of them tries to keep her heels from catching in the pavement.
I keep checking my mirrors. There’s no one I recognize behind me, but that’s not much of a comfort these days.
When I pull into my driveway, the anger has cooled enough for common sense to make its case. My house looks normal. Porch light on. Front door closed. Windows dark. Nothing on the mat. No flowers, no note, no reminder that Adrian knows exactly how to make me feel insane.
I sit in the car for almost a full minute before I force myself to get out.
The alarm is armed when I open the door. The lock is fine. The entryway looks untouched. I move through the house anyway, flipping on lamps as I go, checking each room with the kind of focused paranoia Sebastian would probably compliment me on.
Everything is exactly where I left it, and somehow that feels worse. I wanted proof I was being ridiculous. I wanted to walk in, see my familiar furniture and my stupid decorative lemons, and feel like myself again. Instead I’m standing in the middle of my own kitchen remembering a locked door doesn’t mean safe.
Adrian took that too.
I sit at the island and pull out my phone. I am not calling Sebastian. Absolutely not. I’m not calling Nico either. He’d call Sebastian before I finished the sentence, then show up with that wounded older-brother face that makes me feel guilty and homicidal at the same time.
Gia is the only reasonable option. She answers on the fourth ring, voice thick with sleep.
“If this is about linens, I’m blocking you.”
“I did something stupid,” I say.
There’s a pause, then rustling on her end.
“Oh God. How stupid?”
“I left Sebastian’s.”
“Valentina.”
“I know.”
“Please tell me you’re sitting in a Starbucks parking lot or someplace public with lots of witnesses.”
I wince. “I’m at my house.”
For a second, there’s nothing but silence. Then I hear a drawer open and something hit the floor.
“Jesus Christ,” she says. “You are lucky I love you.”
“I’m aware.”
“No, I don’t think you are.” Her voice gets sharper as she wakes up. “Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Is the door locked?”
“Yes.”
“Check the cameras.”
“I was going to.”
“You absolutely were not.”
I pull up the doorbell app because she’s right, and because this is not the night to admit that out loud. The porch is empty. The driveway is empty. The street looks normal.
“Everything looks fine,” I say.
“Great. Fine is my favorite security protocol.”
“You’ve been spending too much time around Sebastian.”
“I’ve spent literally no time around Sebastian. I just have common sense. Anyway, I’m coming over.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Val, I say this with love, but shut up. Sit down, lock everything, and don’t open the door unless you see my face on the camera.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“I mean it,” she says, and her voice shifts enough that my smile disappears.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and for once, I don’t try to make it smaller with a joke.
“You can apologize when I get there. Preferably with snacks.”
Then she hangs up before I can argue.
The next half hour is miserable. I check the doorbell camera, then the back camera, then the side camera, then the doorbell again. I make myself sit at the kitchen island and last maybe ten seconds before getting back up to check the locks. Twice.
At some point, I start thinking about Sebastian. I don’t want to. I’m still mad at him, and thinking about him softens the anger in ways I’m not prepared to allow. But I can picture his face when he realizes I’m gone. The fear first, probably. Then the fury. Then that horrible calm he gets when he’s deciding exactly how many people are about to suffer for disappointing him.
I wish I didn’t know him well enough to picture it.
My phone buzzes in my hand, and I jump hard enough to almost drop it.