The rain wasn't just falling; it was hammering against the windshield of Roman’s SUV like it was trying to break in. The second we cleared the Northcrest gates, I expected him to head toward the coast, back to the mansion. Instead, he yanked the wheel the other way, pointing us toward the messy, neon glow of downtown LA.
"Roman, where are we going?" I asked, my voice tight. I was gripping the door handle so hard my fingers were starting to go numb. "My mom’s going to freak out if I’m not back for dinner. Marcus already has that PR guy coming over to scrub my reputation."
"Let them freak out," he muttered. He wasn't even looking at me. He had this look on his face—this quiet, focused kind of anger that was way scarier than when he was actually yelling. "You aren't going back there, Scarle
