I don't touch the keycard. I look at my left hand, at the platinum band that feels like a shackle. The memory of Marcus’s “function” curdles in my stomach. When I speak, it’s not Dr. Voss, but a desperate woman. “He wants a child.”
The confession escapes, raw and unprofessional.
Adrian’s stillness deepens. He doesn’t move from where he stands across my desk. His black eyes hold mine, absorbing the fracture in my voice. The air in the room thickens, charged with everything I’ve just thrown between us.
“And what do you want?”
His question is quiet. It’s not a therapist’s query. It’s a man’s. It’s his.
The world narrows to that question and the key-card, that is its answer. My gaze flicks from his face to the small, matte-black rectangle on the polished wood. Penthouse 60A. A private kin
