FREYA SINCLAIR
The car ride back was silent. Not the awkward kind. The deliberate kind.
Rowan sat beside me, one arm resting against the door, his gaze fixed ahead as the city lights slid past the tinted windows. His presence filled the car without him doing anything at all. No phone calls. No champagne. No reassurances.
I kept my hands folded in my lap, fingers laced tightly enough to hurt. My mind wouldn’t stop.
What happens when we get home?
Does he expect something tonight?
The thought made my stomach twist.
I stole a glance at him, hoping to read something off his face. But Rowan Carter was a locked vault. Calm. Unbothered. Like the evening had ended exactly the way he intended.
Rowan didn’t look at me once. That somehow made it worse. The penthouse greeted us with its usual
