13

Marianna.

I don't remember leaving the interview.

Miami's brutal May sun hitting me like a slap, my Target blazer sticking to my back, my feet moving without permission from my brain.

He's fine. He has to be fine.

F1 cars are designed for this. The halo. The survival cell. All those carbon fiber layers. Drivers walk away from crashes all the time. I've seen the compilations on YouTube—spectacular wrecks that look like death on wheels, and then the driver just... climbs out. Waves to the crowd. Posts an I*******m story about it later.

He's fine.

My phone is dead again—of course it is, because this piece of shit device has a battery life of approximately forty-seven minutes—so I can't check the news. Can't see if they've shown him getting out of the car. Can't confirm that he's alive and whole and not currently being airlifted to some trauma center while I'm power-walking through Brickell like a lunatic in uncomfortable shoes.

The blisters have already started. I can feel them forming on both heels, hot spots of friction that will definitely become open wounds by the time I reach his apartment. Good.Pain is better than thinking about—

The car doesn't look like a car anymore.

I walk faster. The flats are definitely drawing blood now. A woman in yoga pants gives me a concerned look as I speed-walk past her, and I must look absolutely unhinged—sweating through professional attire, mascara probably running, breathing like I just ran a marathon instead of walking fifteen blocks.

What am I even doing?

What am I going to do when I get there? Burst into his apartment and... what? Check his pulse? He probably isn't even home. He's probably at the hospital getting checked out, or at the team headquarters doing debriefs.I just—

The elevator up to his floor takes approximately seventeen years. I spend them staring at my reflection in the polished metal doors, sweaty, disheveled, one heel definitely bleeding through my cheap flats, and wondering what the fuck I think I'm doing.

The doors open.

And I hear it.

For a second, I don't understand what I'm hearing.

Then I hear it again.

A moan. Low and drawn out. Feminine.

And another sound underneath it—rhythmic, percussive. The unmistakable sound of something hitting something else. Over and over.

Oh.

Oh no.

Oh no no no no—

I'm frozen in the elevator vestibule. One foot in, one foot out, doors trying to close on me and then sliding back open when they hit my body. The motion sensor dings in annoyance. Please step out of the elevator. Please step out of the elevator.

"Yes, yes, god, yes—"

That voice. I know that voice.

Swedish accent.

I'm standing here, paralyzed, listening to Alina Lindqvist achieve what sounds like the most enthusiastic orgasm in human history, and I can't make myself fucking move.

My stomach turns.

I take a step backward. The elevator doors start to close.

And then—

"Oh my god, Marianna?"

I freeze.

The elevator doors close on me again. Open again. Ding in frustrated resignation.

Alina appears at the end of the hallway.

She's wearing Duane's t-shirt. Her hair is mussed and her cheeks are flushed and there's a satisfied curl to her mouth.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, like I'm the intruder.

"I—" My voice comes out wrong. Squeaky. The voice of a mouse who's just walked in on something it desperately wishes it hadn't. " I was just—"

"We thought you'd be gone longer." Alina stretches, catlike, the motion pulling the t-shirt up her thighs. "Well. Awkward timing, I guess."

She laughs. It's a beautiful sound.

I'm living the nightmare.

Behind her, through the open doorway of the master bedroom, I see—

A figure. Tall and broad and unmistakably him, crossing the room toward what I assume is the bathroom. He's naked. I can see the line of his back.

Alina shifts, blocking my view. Deliberately. Her smile sharpens.

"He's taking a shower," she says. "I'm sure you understand. He's very... thorough."

I don't respond. Can't respond. My tongue has turned to concrete in my mouth.

"Actually, wait." Alina tilts her head, studying me . Her eyes travel down my body. "Can I ask you something?"

I want to say no.

"How old are you again? Twenty-two? Twenty-three?"

"Twenty-three," I manage.

"Hmm." That sound again. Dismissive. "And you've been with... how many men? In your life?"

The question hits me.

"I don't—that's not—"

"Because I'm wondering." She takes a step toward me. Closing the distance between us until I can smell her—expensive perfume and sex. "The way you react. It's very..." She pauses, searching for the word. "Virginal."

My face is on fire.

"I'm not—"

"It's cute, actually." She's right in front of me now. Close enough that I can see the individual strands of her perfect blonde hair, the tiny smear of mascara under her left eye—the only imperfection on her entire fucking face. "Very... innocent."

I should defend myself. I'm not the pathetic creature she clearly thinks I am. .But she's looking at me with those ice-blue eyes, and suddenly all I can think about is Tyler telling his friends I was broken. Daniel calling me frigid. Marcus asking if I'd been assaulted, like that was the only possible explanation for why I couldn't just be normal.

"Oh my god." Alina's eyes widen. Her mouth drops open. "You are a virgin, aren't you?"