Page 70 of His To Erase

Ani

Ilean my head against the window, watching clouds blur past in streaks of white and gray. The hum of the engines fill the cabin, and it’s almost soothing.

I woke up this morning alone in a hotel bed I didn’t remember climbing into. My shoes were off, my makeup was smudged, and the dress I didn’t agree to wear was folded on the chair across the room.

The sheets on the other side of the bed were undisturbed, but there was a note on the nightstand in that slanted, too-neat handwriting that said, Flights at nine. Room service’s on me. You looked beautiful last night.

I don’t remember last night after the first glass of wine. I remember ordering a steak, and laughing at something he said about fruit imported from a volcanic valley in Iceland. I remember his fingers brushing mine, and I remember smiling even though it didn’t feel like mine.

He said nothing happened. We ate dinner, stayed up talking, and I was practically falling asleep at the table. He said I basically told him I didn’t want to fly back that late, so he booked a suite just to make things easy.

At least… that’s what he said.

When I questioned him about it, he sounded offended like I’d insulted him for asking.

He didn’t do anything wrong. Not technically. He was charming. Generous. Warm in all the right ways. But that’s the thing about people like Frank, the kind who always says the right thing—you don’t realize you’re bleeding until you look down and see the knife.

I shift in my seat, with my arms crossed, pulling my hoodie tighter around me. Still trying to ignore the fact that I don’t remember agreeing to any of this. Not the room. Not the flight. And certainly not waking up feeling like someone pressed mute on half my memories.

I’m still trying to forget the way he looked at me this morning—when I came downstairs after the fastest shower of my life. Like I’d already said yes to more than breakfast.

There’s a low clink of glass behind me—champagne, probably. I don’t turn around. I just keep staring at the clouds and swallowing the weird twist in my gut. The croissant tasted like something I’ve had before. Or maybe that was just my brain playing tricks again.

There was a brief moment this morning when I saw a flash of something. A girl—barefoot on marble, and a voice yelling in a language I didn’t recognize. And then it was gone.

I told myself it was nothing, but I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

The plane dips slightly, starting its descent and I exhale through my nose, willing my heart to slow. It’s fine. It’s just a weird day, I’ve had worse.

It’s not like I’m locked in some gilded cage or—“Still with me, doll?”

His voice cuts through the hum behind me, and I blink up at him, heart beating hard against my ribs. I force a smile and nod like everything’s fine.

I’m still pissed and he knows it. I found out over breakfast that Frank called the bar to excuse me from work—only to be told I wasn’t scheduled. He laughed it off saying it worked out, that I clearly needed the break.

The fact that he went behind my back and figured out my schedule pisses me off. I know Sarah wouldn’t do that, so I’ll have to have a nice chat with the servers about that. Good thing I work tonight.

I turn back to the window before he can see what’s written all over my face. Because if I don’t, I might say something I can’t take back.

He settles into the seat across from me. “We’ve got a big weekend ahead.”

My stomach knots so hard it feels like it’s trying to fold in on itself. A big weekend?

Funny—I don’t remember agreeing to that, but I don’t argue. Not up here.

So I smile. Or at least something that passes for it. I lean back in my seat and nod like I’m going along with it, even as my nails dig into the cuffs of my sleeves and my mind’s already flipping through options for when we land.

By the time the wheels touch down, my jaw aches from how long I’ve been clenching it.

Frank’s hand brushes my lower back as we exit the plane with the kind of touch that’s supposed to feel safe, or make me feel special. Only it doesn’t.

The ride is quiet as I watch the trees blur past the tinted window. Somewhere along the way, Frank starts talking about something to do with some meeting tomorrow at the club. His late dinner tonight, then something vague about property acquisitions and a new opportunity in the city.

I nod at all the right times, smiling once or twice, but my head is miles away. Something is trying to claw its way out of me, and the more I ignore it, the more it eats me alive.

“We’ll stop at my place first,” he says casually, like it’s already been decided. “Then I’ll drop you after.”

I blink, turning toward him. “I have work.”

“I know,” he says, smiling just enough to make my pulse skip. “You’ll make it. I’ll be quick.”

By the time we pull into the driveway, the sun is high overhead and I feel like I haven’t slept in days.

Frank opens the door for me before the driver even has the chance.

He doesn’t say anything, just offers his hand like he’s the hero in some vintage romance.

I don’t take it, I’m too tired to pretend.

"You okay?" he asks, watching me a little too closely.

I nod. “I’m just tired.”

His smile is warm and familiar, and it’s the kind that used to work on me. The kind that might’ve worked again—if I hadn’t already seen what it looks like when someone doesn’t pretend to want you.

Frank’s house is just as pristine as the last time, and just as suffocating.

“This won’t take long,” he says, unlocking the front door and guiding me inside like I wasn’t here. “Just a quick meeting in the office. Then I’ll drive you back so you can get ready for work.”

I blink. “You said you’d take me straight home.”

“And I will. In just a minute.” He smiles over his shoulder. “Guest room’s made up if you want to lie down. First door on the right, down the hall.”

Lie down? Right, because this is so casual. So fucking normal.

“Take a nap if you need,” he adds, already turning toward his office. “There’s a phone charger on the nightstand.”

Of course there is.

And just like that, he’s gone.

I head down the hall, every step heavier than the last, and plug my phone in before even sitting down. No new messages. No missed calls. Which is a little weird. At least for Sarah.

I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the screen like it’s supposed to tell me what the hell I’m doing. My reflection stares back at me in the black glass and I hit Sarah’s name, it rings once then goes straight to voicemail.

Rude!

I don’t leave a message, I just stare at the screen like an idiot, wondering what the hell is wrong with me. Why I came, why I stayed. Why I keep lying to myself, and that this isn’t exactly what it looks like?

Frank hasn’t done anything wrong. Not technically. But there’s just something about him that is starting to make me feel uneasy.

I don’t know how long I sit there, picking at the skin around my thumbnail, before the thought hits me like a slap. I don’t know why I’m sitting here, I want to leave.

How do you walk away without being rude when someone’s been nothing but…

good? Pushy lately, yeah. Intense in ways that feel like more than just interest. But still—he’s been constant.

I’ve known him since the night I rode with him in the back of the ambulance and he’s done nothing but show up for me since.

And now I’m here, in his house, staring out his window—and plotting how to sneak out without a goodbye.

What the hell is wrong with me?

The only reason I haven’t left yet, is because I want to tell him we’re not going anywhere. That I don’t like him like that. That whatever this is, it needs to stop.

I grab my phone and shoot Sarah a quick text.

Me: Are we hanging out at work tonight, or are we hanging out at your place?

The message sends, but there’s a weird delay—just a spinning circle before the “delivered” finally pops up. It takes a full minute before my phone buzzes, which is unlike her.

Sarah: My place tomorrow if you don’t ghost me again You good? You kinda disappeared.

Perfect.

I move toward the window and part the curtain with two fingers, peeking out at the driveway. I can hear his voice from somewhere downstairs, so whatever meeting he was having, he’s still not done.

Frank’s voice drifts up again—probably on another call, planning another surprise like we’re characters in a movie I never agreed to star in.

On my way out, I catch my reflection in the mirror. I look calm, but that’s the lie. Under the surface, I’m vibrating. That brittle kind of tension that only shows up when something’s about to snap.

I slip out of the room like a ghost with my phone gripped tight in my hand. My heart hammers in my throat as Frank’s voice murmurs faintly from his office down the hall. I don’t know why it suddenly feels like this. Like a trap wrapped in kindness. But it does.

I move toward the door with my breath shallow, as my fingers brush the handle.

“—she’s useful,” Frank says, keeping his voice low. He still has that edge of charm, but it’s different now.

I freeze again as another male voice responds, “Useful doesn’t mean reliable. You sure she’s not going to bolt again?”

My lungs stop working.

Frank laughs. Not loudly, but it’s enough to make my stomach twist.

“She’s not going anywhere, she’s too wrapped up in the story I gave her. She still thinks this is about us.”

Us? Is he talking about me?

“I mean hell, she’s a good girl when she’s distracted. I’ve been patient long enough.”

“You sure you’re not getting soft?” The other voice says.

“I’m protecting my investment.”

A numb, detached kind of horror that hits too fast to make sense, fills my body. A shiver runs down my spine.

Investment? What the actual fuck.

“You think she’s worth all this?” the man asks.

Frank laughs again.

“She doesn’t even know what she’s worth.” There’s a pause. “Not after what happened in Cali. Hell, she barely remembers that night.”