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“You knew I made a mistake,” he says.

I study his face.I don’t know where he’s going with this—only that men like him rarely admit fault.And when they do, it’s never without an angle.

“But you let me keep making it.”

My hands stay in my lap.Steady.Flat.Neutral.

“You shoved a needle in my neck and stuffed me in your car.You can hardly argue what I know or don’t.”

“You know enough.”

There’s nothing to say to that.So I look away—toward the windows.Ocean, endless and clean, like the horizon might erase everything if you stare long enough.

“Did it feel good?”he asks.“Watching me act like I had it right?”

“No.”

His tone shifts—tight, clipped.“Look at me.”

I don’t.

The chair creaks as he leans forward.“I said look at me.”

I turn my head.Slowly.My eyes meet his.

“I asked you a question.And I expect a proper answer.”

“No.It didn’t feel good,” I say, which is the truth.“It felt irrelevant.Because I’m still here.And it’s not like you’re going to just let me walk out.”

His expression doesn’t change.

I watch him—his hands, his shoulders, the confusion on his face.

“You think if I’d known your name sooner, I wouldn’t have brought you here?”

I don’t answer.

Because I don’t believe that.

Because I know better.

He leans in.

“I don’t care who you are,” he says.“Only what you’ve done.”

“Andwhathave I done?”

He lets the question hang.Not because he has the answer—but because he doesn’t.

Because he’s still trying to mold me into something that justifies this.

He pushes back from the table.

“We’re done here,” he says.“Let’s get you back to your room.”

I don’t move.

“You got what you wanted.A confession.Now either let me eat or kill me and get it over with—because honestly, death sounds a whole lot more refreshing than spending another day here with you.”