When we got back to the house—Lucian's house, not mine, never mine—he walked out without looking at me. His steps were hard, fast, disappearing into the dark hallway. The door slammed. I flinched.
The bodyguard held my door open. Waiting. Patient. His face was blank, but I knew what he saw. A woman crying. Dress torn. Hair wild.
I could not move.
Why was I crying? He hurt me. He said stupid words. He dragged me through a crowd of people who called me a whore. He shamed me for something I cannot control.
Why was I crying for him?
I wiped my face. Hard. The tears kept coming. I wiped again. They did not stop.
I climbed out of the car. My legs were shaking. I walked past the guards, past the marble floors, past the paintings on the walls that looked down at me with their dead eyes. Up the stairs. Fast. My room. Not his. Anywhere but his.
I closed the door. Leaned against it. My breath was ragged, my chest heaving, my face wet.
