Page 167 of Their Arrangement

I moved up in the line. Handed over the note. The girl at the register smiled too brightly. I smiled back with the corners of my mouth but not my eyes. My phone buzzed again.

I ignored it.

The drinks came slowly. Each one read aloud like a name on a gravestone.

Royal—flat white.

Loyal—black.

Barron—espresso.

And the last?

I forced a smile.

“Just dark roast. Cream. For me.”

The tray landed in front of me like a sentence I hadn’t finished serving yet. I lifted it carefully. Too carefully. Turned away from the counter and moved toward the door. Ten steps. Ten. And I could pretend I was okay.

Just an assistant.

Just bringing coffee.

Not the girl with blood on her conscience and betrayal in her back pocket.

But then?—

The air changed.

That shift again. Like the city had inhaled and forgotten to exhale. I stopped. And looked up. And there he was. Leaning against the wall just outside the café. Hands in his pockets. Smiling.

Like he hadn’t locked me in a bathroom stall and told me to be grateful.

Like he hadn’t choked me with one hand and whisperedgood girllike it meant something kind.

Like he hadn’t left bruises that took three weeks to fade.

My stomach twisted. And for the first time in months?—

Iwanted to run.

He looked almost bored. Like this wasn’t planned. Like he just happened to be standing there. Like he hadn’t once told me he’d never stop finding me. His jacket was different.

But his eyes?

His eyes weren’t.

And that was all it took. My legs turned to water. My mouth went dry. The tray in my hands felt like it had doubled in weight.

He smiled.

Tilted his head. And in that gesture, I remembered everything I didn’t want to. The night he kicked the bathroom door open. The crack of it against tile. The echo of the lock breaking. The way he stood over me, bottle in hand, voice low and steady and terrifying.

You make it so hard to love you, baby.

He used to say that with my hair wrapped around his fist.

He used to whisper it when I tried to leave.