My scream tears through the morning silence. Before the sound even dies in my throat, the bathroom door slams open.
Stavros is there. Gun drawn. Eyes wild.
He scans the room in a heartbeat. He sees me huddled on the bed, shaking. He sees the black rose on the pillow.
He doesn't ask. He doesn't comfort. He holsters the weapon and grabs my arm.
"We're leaving," he growls.
"My things—"
"Leave them."
He drags me out of the room, barefoot and in my pajamas. We don't take the stairs. We take the service elevator to the garage. He throws me into a different car this time—a low, silver sports car that looks fast enough to outrun a missile.
We tear out of the estate. He drives like a madman, weaving through traffic, checking his mirrors every three seconds. I clutch the dashboard, the card
