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So, after a forty-eight-hour pity party last week, I sat down and registered for all four of my subject tests. I was tired of existing as the version of myself that people played with and getting that milestone out of the way felt right after putting it off for so long.

I don’t know why I thought there’d be more fanfare, but the day after I registered, I flew through my language arts test and passed. The day after that I did social studies. And the Monday following that weekend, I took the science test.

Math was my only vice, and I told myself that if I didn’t pass, I could just take it again. Nobody would know and even if they did, who gave a fuck?

I was fresh out of those and didn’t see myself reupping anytime soon.

But I didn’t fail.

Today, I took the test, and I got the lowest possible score to pass. But I didn’t fail, dammit.

And now? Now I don’t know what to do.

Rest.

It’s what Adonis told me to do.

It’s what my body’s been yelling for months.

You never have to work again if that’s not what you want to do.

As tempting as it is as a concept, my mind won’t let go of thewhat ifs.

What if somebody drains my new bank account?

What if me passing my test was a mistake?

What if Adonis wakes up one morning and decides I’m not worth the trouble?

After a lifetime of everything being taken from me, whether by force or in secret, I don’t know how to trick my mind into believing it’ll all work out.

As I sit down in Adonis’ office chair, our conversation from the night before rings clear in my head as if he’s right here with me.

Using pillow talk as an excuse, I brought up what I’d found snooping in his office that day.

“Did you really give Chiara forty million dollars to break your engagement?”

“We weren’t engaged,” he reminds me, angling his body so that he’s as close to me as he can be without taking over my silk pillowcase. “But yeah, I gave her the money.”

“Adonis, that’s a lot of fucking money,” I whisper, mouth agape. It’s four times what I have in my bank account and I’mstill having a hard time wrapping my head around that. So, forty million simply isn’t computing.

“It’s one plane,” he tells me.

“What?”

“The average private jet I have on hand costs forty million. So…” He lifts one shoulder before reaching over me to rest his hand at my nape.

I blink, still stuck on the analogy. “What happens now that you’ve paid her? Does The Society just leave you alone?”

Adonis yawns. “Nah. That forty million wasn’t for The Society, it was for her. That’s a separate issue. And I’m working on it.”

“Adonis, I don’t want you to have problems with your family just because you want to be with me.” He’s the third generation of his bloodline to have rank within The Society. Throwing that away would be reckless. “I’m just saying I’d be okay if you couldn’t be with me.”

“Iwouldn’t be okay.” The moonlight highlights his pointed stare. “Now what?”

“I don’t know,” I admit, melting into his touch.

“Then let me worry about it.”