CAMILLA
Was it a prank?
I didn’t know. I really didn’t.
I sat there in the passenger seat, spine stiff, hands folded tight in my lap like if I let go, I might shake apart.
The city lights streaked past the window in long blurred lines, glowing and distant, and I stared at them like they might whisper answers if I watched closely enough.
Every now and then, I snuck a glance at August.
He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh. His jaw was tight, lips set in a hard line, eyes fixed straight ahead. Calm. Focused. Controlled. Like he hadn’t just pulled me out of a hospital bed and decided—on a whim, it seemed—to take me somewhere instead of locking me back inside the penthouse.
That was the part that scared me.
Not the control.
The unpredictability.
