My hand is still on his chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart. It doesn't match the performance. I look from his face to the unopened bottle of pills on the floor beside us. The lie is so blatant it feels like a dare.
“What do you need, Adrian?” My voice is low, stripped of its professional cadence.
He doesn’t open his eyes. “You know.”
“I need you to say it.”
“Treat me.” The words are rough, torn from him. “Please. Control me. Make it stop.”
I pull my hand back. The cool air of the penthouse rushes between us. I stand up, smoothing my skirt, putting physical and professional distance back into the room. I look at my watch, a purely theatrical gesture. The numbers mean nothing.
“I have one hour,” I say, the clinical tone returning like a stiff uniform. “This is… profoun
