Chapter Thirty Nine.

An hour—maybe two—slips past in the blur of recycled air and the unending hum of the ventilation system. My skin feels stretched thin, my patience thinner. The storm above doesn’t rage; it prowls, steady and relentless, like it’s waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

Chase appears with trays of food balanced in his hands, flanked by two of Adrian’s bodyguards carrying more. He hands portions to those nearest, moving with the ease of a man who’s been in too many tight quarters with too many restless people. The guards, tall and imposing in their black suits, cut a path toward Adrian—and then, without being told, one bends toward him.

Adrian’s voice is low, a command disguised as casual.

“Get Sienna something as well.”

The words hit me like a quiet spotlight. My jaw tightens. It’s nothing, I tell myself. A scrap of courtesy. But when the guard returns, setting the food down in front of me with a polite, “From Mr. Hawthorne,” I feel every gaze that shifts in my direction.

Across the