Page 68 of His Obsession
Leaving Sebastian’s house right now is stupid. I know that. I also know staying here for one more second might make me say something so ugly we never come back from it.
I throw random things into my bag. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, or even where I’m going. Mostly I just need to do something with my hands.
I’m tired of men stepping into rooms I’m not in and deciding what happens next. Tired of hearing about plans for my own life. Tired of being pregnant and scared and expected to be reasonable. I change fast, yanking on jeans and a sweatshirt, stuffing my feet into sneakers without bothering to find socks.
I take the back stairs because I don’t want to pass his office. If I see him, I’ll either cave or start round two of the fight, and I have no faith in my ability to make either option dignified.
The garage is dim when I reach it. My car sits where I left it, boxed between two black SUVs that are probably armored. I get in, shut the door, and sit there with both hands on the wheel while the smarter, less dramatic part of my brain tells me to go back upstairs.
I start the car anyway. The gate guard steps out when I pull up, his face already serious.
“Ms.Moretti,” he says, leaning slightly toward my window. “Everything okay?”
For half a second, I consider telling him the truth. I’m furious, humiliated, terrified, and trying very hard not to think about the fact that my ex may be close enough to know my movements better than I do. Instead, I press a hand over my stomach and force my face to tighten.
“I’m having cramps,” I say. “I need to go to the hospital.”
His expression changes immediately, and I hate myself a little for how well it works.
“I’ll call Mr. DeLuca.”
“No,” I say, much too quickly. “Please don’t. I don’t want to wake him if it’s nothing. I’m already anxious enough.”
He hesitates, which is his job, and probably his last decent instinct of the night.
“I can have someone drive you.”
“I don’t need a driver to go to the doctor.”
It comes out too sharp. He notices. I soften my voice before he can think too hard about it.
“I promise I’ll call if something’s wrong.”
He looks miserable as he steps back toward the gatehouse. Then the gate opens, and I drive through before he changes his mind.
The second I’m on the other side, I almost turn around. I’m still furious. That hasn’t changed. I just suddenly understand that getting through the gate was the easy part, and everything after this is me alone with the consequences of my own bad judgment.
Los Angeles is strange late at night. Restaurants spill people onto sidewalks. Valets jog between cars like they’re training for a very stupid marathon. A group of women in tiny dresses laughs outside a club while one of them tries to keep her heels from catching in the pavement.
I keep checking my mirrors. There’s no one I recognize behind me, but that’s not much of a comfort these days.
When I pull into my driveway, the anger has cooled enough for common sense to make its case. My house looks normal. Porch light on. Front door closed. Windows dark. Nothing on the mat. No flowers, no note, no reminder that Adrian knows exactly how to make me feel insane.
I sit in the car for almost a full minute before I force myself to get out.
The alarm is armed when I open the door. The lock is fine. The entryway looks untouched. I move through the house anyway, flipping on lamps as I go, checking each room with the kind of focused paranoia Sebastian would probably compliment me on.
Everything is exactly where I left it, and somehow that feels worse. I wanted proof I was being ridiculous. I wanted to walk in, see my familiar furniture and my stupid decorative lemons, and feel like myself again. Instead I’m standing in the middle of my own kitchen remembering a locked door doesn’t mean safe.
Adrian took that too.
I sit at the island and pull out my phone. I am not calling Sebastian. Absolutely not. I’m not calling Nico either. He’d call Sebastian before I finished the sentence, then show up with that wounded older-brother face that makes me feel guilty and homicidal at the same time.
Gia is the only reasonable option. She answers on the fourth ring, voice thick with sleep.
“If this is about linens, I’m blocking you.”
“I did something stupid,” I say.
