The second the car door shut behind us, I lost my grip on composure.
I didn’t cry. Not the way I wanted to. Not the way the tight knot in my throat begged me to.
But the silence between Adrian and me was deafening.
His fury hung thick in the air, like smoke trapped in a small space—hot, choking, impossible to ignore.
I sat stiffly in the back seat, hands clenched so tightly in my lap I was sure I’d leave crescents from my nails in my skin.
He didn’t ask what happened. Not again.
He didn’t have to.
He knew. Or at least he’d pieced together enough of it.
I could still taste James on my mouth—like poison.
It turned my stomach, twisted my chest into a knot of shame and fury.
I should’ve known better. I shouldn’t have gone out onto that balcony. Shouldn’t have left the light. Shouldn’
