Page 18 of A Vicious Love

“Yes, but I came with you.”

“Then leave with your driver.”

“My driver isn’t here.” I hated how small my voice sounded. “You told them we were arriving together. I thought⁠—”

“Hold.” He spoke into the phone. Then he looked at me fully, and somehow that was worse.

“Sienna, I don’t have the capacity to manage your transport tonight.”

Manage. As if I were luggage. I kept my expression neutral.

“I can call someone,” I said quickly. “I just thought⁠—”

“Then call someone.”

His phone went back to his ear.

That was it.

The side door opened. Two guards moved around him, and Jamison Crow walked out into the wet night without touching me, without checking if I had a ride, without saying goodbye.

The door shut behind him. For a few seconds, I stood there staring at the dark wood.

A waiter passed behind me carrying a tray of coffee cups and pretended very hard not to notice I was standing alone by the exit.

I breathed in.

Out.

In again.

Then I turned and walked back toward the bar.

I would call someone.

Of course I would. I was twenty. I had a phone, and a family name that gave me access to drivers and enough money to be stranded only in the emotional sense.

Still, my hands shook when I opened my little purse.

No signal.

I frowned down at my phone. One bar appeared, then disappeared.

Bellweather always had terrible reception inside because of the old stone walls. The resort had private communication systems for security and staff, but guests had to wander near windows or terrace doors to get anything through.

I moved toward the glass wall.

No signal.

Toward the terrace doors. Nothing. I went outside.

The terrace was damp, the stone slick beneath my heels. My phone found one bar, then lost it again before the call connected.

I tried my mother first.

No answer.

Then my father’s office line. Straight to assistant voicemail. My usual driver. No answer. I sent messages, but they stuck halfway, grey and undelivered.