Page 134 of Desperate Actions

And that is something I do not like.

The silence. The unknown.

It sits like a weight on my chest, pressing down harder with each passing second.

Still, before I can talk myself into spiraling further, I yank my phone out and start a group text with all the girls, inviting them over to the house in Montclair.

It feels strange. But also wonderful.

Like I’m taking a step into something real. Something mine.

Ours.

The house Sammy built for us is amazing. I haven’t completely put my stamp on it yet, but I’ve started. Ordering little things here and there, rearranging spaces to feel more like me.

There are still things to pick up from my parents’ house, but nothing urgent. It’s not like I need furniture or houseware.

And really, the place is beautiful. Like something out of a magazine.

But he’s told me—more than once—that I can do whatever I want to the place. That I should make it ours.

Then, as if to seal the deal, he handed me a black American Express card.

For that exact purpose.

I haven’t used it yet. But maybe I’ll work up the nerve soon.

In fact, maybe that’s what tonight will be about. A kind of reality TV, dinner, and interior design brainstorming session.

Something to distract me from this gnawing feeling in my gut.

My phone pings.

I glance down and grin.

Andrea, Clementine, Michaela, Lucy, and Leanna are all coming over.

Good. I need this.

The moment Santos pulls into the garage, I reach for the handle before the vehicle even comes to a full stop.

I don’t wait.

I don’t let him open the door for me.

That’s something Sammy does.

And it doesn’t feel right, having someone else do it, even though I know it’s just part of Santos’ job.

I pull the door open and step out, my heels clicking on the polished concrete.

Behind me, Santos clears his throat.

“I can get that for you, Mrs. Ramirez,” he says, sounding mildly shocked.

Or maybe alarmed.

I shake my head and wave a hand dismissively.

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