The memory of that moonlit night on the driveway was still fresh. When Adrian’s car had torn up the gravel road to rescue me, he had searched my face for answers, his hands framing my jaw with a tight, terrifying panic.
"Who did this, Selena? Tell me their name," he had demanded, his voice a low, lethal hum that promised absolute destruction.
But looking at him, I had simply wrapped my arms around his neck and whispered, "Just take me home, Adrian. It’s handled. I promise." Because it had happened in a shadowed, secluded alcove with no cameras and no witnesses, the incident remained entirely buried. Raymond Sterling had apparently checked into a private clinic under a false name to get his head stitched up, claiming to his associates that he had "tripped and fallen into a glass display."
