Don Markos
When he pulled up to an empty parking lot and turned off the engine, I knew I was in trouble.
Before I could react, the car door swung open. A figure appeared—Markos. His face was hard, eyes cold as he pulled me from the car. The client sputtered excuses, but Markos wasn't listening. He shoved him back into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut. I stood there, trembling, my heart pounding in my ears. Markos's expression softened as he looked at me, concern replacing the anger. He drove me home in silence, a tense quiet that felt heavier than words. I wanted to thank him, to explain, but the lump in my throat was too thick. That night, I couldn't sleep, haunted by what could have happen
Bab Populer