Page 94

They spend almost three hours in there. Three long, excruciating hours where I finish two drinks and still feel nothing but this stupid, heavy ache in my chest. Jealousy.

When they finally walk out, I shrink into my booth, barely breathing.

He kisses her cheek. She beams like he just gave her the moon. Then he texts me to say the date is over. After this, he gets into his car, and a few seconds later, I get into mine.

He doesn’t go home. Not immediately. He drives to another apartment—uptown, sleek, discreet. Somewhere private.

He disappears inside, and I wait. For nearly three hours, I sit in my car, alternating between shame and spite. I know I should go. I know this isn’t right. But I can’t seem to turn the engine on.

At exactly six-thirty, he’s out again. This time, it feels different.

He’s wearing the same clothes, but something about the way he moves—tight, like he’s wound too tight and might snap at any moment—makes my stomach twist.

I follow again.

And this is where things get strange.

The second address is another restaurant, but nothing like the first. It’s tucked into the hills, guarded, and clearly meant to be invisible to the public. I try to drive in, but the men at the gate shake their heads.

“Private event tonight,” one of them says. “The entire place is bought out.”

Of course it is.

A part of me deflates. It has to be a woman. Why else go through this trouble? Why else spend hours locked up in an apartment, only to show up here like he’s about to break?

Jealousy flares again—hot, acidic.

I grip the steering wheel and consider leaving. Just cutting my losses and pretending this day never happened.

But then, less than twenty minutes later, his car zooms out of the compound and flies past me.

He’s driving fast. Reckless.

I take off after him without thinking. My heart is pounding so hard it hurts. I can barely keep up. He bolts across town like he’s running from something—or someone.

Finally, he pulls into a downtown pub. One of those places with no name and boarded-up windows. The kind of spot peopledisappear into. This time, he steps out of the car wearing a baseball cap. Then he disappears into the place.

I park. Take a breath. And then I follow him in.

The pub is dark and loud, but Jack is a still, quiet figure at the far end of the bar—like he doesn’t belong here, but doesn’t care, either.

He downs his first drink before I even reach him, and by the time I slide onto the stool beside him, he’s already signaling the bartender for another.

He doesn’t flinch when I sit next to him. Doesn’t look surprised.

“Why have you been trailing me around all day, Mia?” he asks, voice low and tired.

My mouth opens. “You saw me?”

“Of course I saw you.” He lifts the glass to his lips but pauses. “I’m used to being trailed and followed everywhere I go, I’ve developed a sixth sense. Go home, Mia. This isn’t a place for you.”

“I’m not going home without you,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. I nod at the bartender and order a drink, though I already know I won’t actually drink it. I glance at Jack. “Are you okay?”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Don’t ask me that,” he says. “If you do, I might actually start crying.”

I freeze, unsure if he’s joking.

He’s not.