My stomach churns.
“Hold on,” I whisper under my breath, not sure if I’m talking to Faith or myself.
Because there’s only one thing I know for certain right now:
I’m coming.
And I’m not turning back.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Faith
February 3rd
By the timethe day finally grinds to a close, I feel like I’ve lived six of them back-to-back without sleep.
My body hurts in that dull, humming way that comes from being braced all the time. Shoulders locked. Jaw clenched. Spine stiff like I’m holding myself upright with willpower alone. Even my eyes feel tired, like they’ve been staring too long at something bright and unforgiving and forgot how to soften.
It’s been that kind of day.
Meetings that aren’t really meetings. Smiles that don’t quite reach anyone’s eyes. Carefully phrased sentences that all mean the same thing: behave.
All day long, there’s only been one thought looping quietly in the back of my head, tapping insistently like a finger against glass.
Did my message get through?
I sent it early this morning, in a stolen minute when the conference room was empty, and the hallway outside was quiet enough that I could hear my own heart beating. I used thebusiness account because it was the only thing I had access to that wouldn’t immediately raise flags. No personal email. No phone. No private browser window.
Just a thin crack.
My fingers shook so badly I had to retype half of it. I didn’t sign my name because I didn’t need to. If Rose saw it, she’d know. And if she didn’t… well.
I don’t let myself finish that thought.
I focus on the present. On getting through the last meeting, the last nod, the last polite laugh. I tell myself not to expect anything. Not to watch doors. Not to flinch every time someone says my name.
By the time I’m dismissed, my head is pounding, and my skin feels too tight.
Evan is waiting outside the building, of course.
Leaning against his car like he belongs there, like this is his territory. Phone in hand. Jacket perfect. Hair flawless. He looks like a magazine ad for asuccessful man who definitely doesn’t emotionally dismantle his fiancée in parking lots.
His gaze flicks over me the second I step outside.
And tightens.
“You’re wearing that?” he asks.
I glance down at myself. Simple black dress. Long sleeves. Conservative cut. Chosen specifically because my father’s assistant said it would “photograph well” and “not distract.”
“Yes,” I say carefully. “It was on the schedule.”
Evan clicks his tongue softly, already annoyed. “It makes you look tired.”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
“I am tired,” I say.
