“I told you not to call me on this line.”
The words scrape out of my throat, low and sharp, like they’re cutting their way free. The stairwell swallows them whole, concrete walls cold and sweating, amplifying my breath until it sounds louder than it should. My phone is pressed hard to my ear, knuckles white, pulse thrumming so violently I swear it might shatter the screen.
Above me, somewhere beyond steel doors and fluorescent lights, Christmas music drips through the building...cheap bells, synthetic cheer, voices pretending the world is softer than it really is.
Down here, there’s no pretending.
Just echoes. Shadows. And the woman who refuses to stay in my past.
Ivy exhales on the other end of the line. Slow. Controlled. Like she’s savoring the moment.
“Relax, Adrian,” she says. “I
