168 Hours in Hell
And then her feet are on the asphalt, and she must feel safe enough to turn back and look at me.
Her gaze drops to my lap.
“Anytime you want to take a ride, sweetheart,” I goad.
She narrows her eyes.
“You’ve got an hour.”
That makes pretty Violet pause. “To meet with that publicist?”
I check my watch. “Technically, we meet with her in forty minutes.”
“Why should I go with you?”
Oh, a test? I do love these. I pull my phone from my pocket and open the video of her breaking the NDA. Her anger comes off her in waves on my screen, palpable even from here. I let it play, enjoying the theater of it.
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