Page 72 of Sinful Beauty

With a glance in the mirror, I tidy my hair, double-check my makeup, then swing the door open.

Emelia stands in the doorway, and I try to ignore the wave of disappointment.

“Bonjour.” She’s wearing a floral robe which might cover her pajamas. “Is everything okay?” She rarely comes up to the attic.

“There’s a black limousine at the curb. The driver says he was sent to pick you up. Because of the rain? They don’t want you walking?” Her eyebrows are sky high and it’s clear she desperately wants to know why the office, or someone, has sent a driver for me.

Tristan. It has to be him. This is Tristan groveling. Agreeing to my request to talk later, but showing he wants to make amends for his reaction. I don’t bother with suppressing my smile as I gather my umbrella and follow her out the door.

This means nothing, of course. I haven’t made a decision. But Tristan showing this level of caring lifts my spirits and gives me hope that no matter what we decide, I won’t be in this alone. Based on how my insides calm and, well, for once, I don’t feel like the world is ending, this kindness is a good call on his part.

I pull the door shut and follow Emelia outside.

When we exit, a man in a black suit opens the driver's door and exits the vehicle. Freezing rain drizzles from a charcoal sky, and he opens the passenger door for me, gesturing for me to get in. He’s bald, and I can’t help but wonder why he isn’t wearing a cap of some sort.

I hurry into the car to minimize his time under the pelting rain.

As the door closes, I look back and see Emelia’s face peering through a window. She saw me crying yesterday and now a limousine and driver is picking me up. She must be so confused. I should speak with her, but I can’t imagine what I’ll say. I’m nowhere near ready to explain what’s going on with me, as I’m still figuring it out myself. And I don’t want to admit to her what I’ve done. She’s my landlady, not a mother figure, but she’s always wearing a necklace with a cross pendant. Much like my mother.

Bits of ice hit and bounce off the windshield, and drops of rain splatter. The windshield wipers clear the rain, and the car rolls forward.

The door clicks, and I study the side door, wondering where the lock is. The black leather seats shine, as if recently buffed, and a fresh scent permeates the car. Is it new, or was it recently cleaned? Tristan’s car had been new. Of course, everything in his life felt new, other than the building facade where he lives.

“Thank you for driving me,” I say.

The man’s gaze flicks to me in the rearview.

“No problem. I’m going to roll up the divider now. It won’t be long.”

That’s odd. I’m a twenty-five-minute walk to work. By car it should be minutes. “Excuse me,” I say as a grey felt divide slowly rises. “Do you have the address? Do you know where I work?”

The divider reaches the top of the car. If Tristan hired him, then he would have the address.

He misses the turn, and I pound on the divider. What is he doing?

A flume of smokey gas exits from a silver pen sitting in a cup holder that I hadn’t noticed. I stare at it, focusing on the stream of air. It’s not a pen. No, it’s too thick. It looks more like a test tube. There’s no smell to the stream and the smokey quality diminishes. I run my finger in front of the small hole at the top where the air was exiting. The plume chills my skin.

I take the tube and wedge it in the seat's crack. It’s probably just an air freshener, but in case it’s not, I don’t need to be breathing whatever it’s sending out. Although, there’s no scent.

My heart rate picks up and I pound on the divider until my knuckles ache and I switch to slapping my palms against the divider.

The car stops at an intersection, and I wave frantically at the sedan next to us, attempting to capture their attention.

The person in the passenger seat never looks my way. I pound on the glass, but of course they can’t hear me.

The light changes and we roll forward.

I need to get out of this car.

I unclip my seat belt and study the seat. If I can peal back the seat, can I make it into the trunk? And if I can, what does that buy me?

What is happening? Tristan sent this car to get me, and it’s clearly not taking me to work. Is this his way of handling the pregnancy?

I open my bag and remove my phone. A wave of desperation encompasses me as I zero in on the bar at the top. No service.

In my bag, I have pepper spray. I’m not helpless, but this is crazy. The car turns into a section of Geneva I’ve never seen before.

I need to get a hold of myself. This can’t…this isn’t how anyone would handle a pregnancy.

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