Goodbye, Mr. Wrong: The Heiress Returns
Five minutes, forty-two seconds.
The number burned into my vision, reflected on the polished curve of the SUV, stamped across the far wall like a brand. Not a clock. A threat. A promise.
“Move,” Desmond murmured, already pulling me backward, angling us between two pillars as shadows reorganized themselves into men again. His voice was steady, but his pulse was not. I could feel it through our clasped hands, rapid and controlled, like a countdown trying to outrun itself.
Someone groaned nearby. One of them was down. Not enough.
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