Iris The door slammed, and the sound felt final. Not loud, just absolute. I was in the back seat of Lucien’s car, leather cool against my skin, the faint scent of his cologne pressing into my lungs until it felt impossible to breathe. The windows were tinted so dark the world outside became a blur of shadow and movement, and when I twisted in my seat, pressing my palms flat against the glass, all I could see was my own reflection. Pale. Wild eyed. Breaking. “Adrian,” I whispered, my voice cracking on his name. The car didn’t move. That terrified me more than if it had. Through the windshield, I could see Lucien pacing several yards ahead, his back rigid, his phone pressed to his ear as he barked orders I couldn’t hear. Two members of his security team flanked the front of the house, alert and ready. Another stood by the driver’s door, hands clasped, expression blank. They were not here to escort me. They were here to extract me. I pounded on the glass. “Lucien! L
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