Page 57 of Their Arrangement

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Now she was wreckage.

And I was the storm circling her name.

I pulled into the private garage beneath the Lawlor tower. Rolled into the reserved space near the elevator. No security. No witnesses. Just concrete and shadows.

I turned off the engine.

Sat there.

Breathing.

Listening to the rain outside the building like it was tryingto drive something out of me.

My jacket clung to my shoulders. My shirt was plastered to my back. Rainwater trickled down the back of my neck like penance.

I ran my hand through my hair, slicked it back, felt the sting of memory in my knuckles.

I hadn’t meant to shove her.

But I had.

I saw the way she hit the stone. The way her breath caught. The way the photo fell.

And I saw her face when she looked back at me.

Not fear.

Not rage.

Just resignation.

Like she’d been expecting it.

Like she’d known all along that I’d come for her.

And still—she let me.

Still—she stayed.

I leaned back in the driver’s seat.

Closed my eyes.

And tried not to picture her soaked to the skin.

Tried not to remember how her blouse clung to her ribs. How her knees pressed together like she was holding herself in.

How her voice shook when she said she missed Camille.

I didn’t know what scared me more.

That I believed her.

Or that I wanted her anyway.

The elevator ride was silent.

Fifteen floors.

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