15
Emma
Marcus leads me to a fancy black car parked at the curb and opens the door for me. I climb into the back seat, my face hot despite the chilly November wind as he takes a seat next to me. The car is large and spacious, but with Marcus there, it feels stiflingly small. It’s not just his large frame, either; it’s everything about him. He takes up space in a way that goes beyond the physical, commanding the very air around him.
Next to him, I feel like an asteroid caught in Jupiter’s orbit—small and powerless to escape the massive planet’s pull.
“The restaurant, please, Wilson,” Marcus says to the driver, and I see the man nodding in the rearview mirror as the car starts moving. The fact that Marcus knows his name makes me wonder if Marcus hired the car for the evening, or if Wilso
