The car door opens with a soft click that sounds far too final.
Elijah doesn't rush me. He never does. He simply places a hand at the small of my back, not pushing, not pulling, just enough pressure to remind me that the space behind me no longer exists. The night air clings to my skin as I step closer to the car, the coolness sharpening every nerve in my body. My heels scrape against the pavement, the sound too loud in the quiet.
I hesitate.
It's barely a second, barely a pause, but I feel it the moment his fingers tighten.
"Get in," he says calmly.
Not raised. Not harsh.
Certain.
I obey.
The interior smells faintly of leather and something darker, something that reminds me of smoke and expensive cologne. The door shuts behind me, sealing the sound of the outside world away. The laughter, the music, the witnesses. Gone.
The silence inside the car is thick, almost alive.
Elijah slides in beside me with unhurried grace, adjusting his cufflinks as though this is just another evening, another transaction completed successfully. The car pulls away almost immediately, tyres humming against the road.
I keep my hands folded in my lap, fingers clenched so tightly my nails bite into my skin. The ring glints under the dim interior light, a cruel reminder of what I've just become.
Mrs. Thorne.
The word circles my mind without settling, like something foreign that refuses to fit.
Streetlights blur past the window in long streaks of gold. I stare at my hands, forcing them still. Any wrong movement feels dangerous now, like it might expose something I'm barely holding together.
Elijah shifts beside me.
Not much. Just enough that I feel it.
His presence fills the space without sound, without force, like gravity. I don't look at him. Looking feels dangerous. Like he might see something I'm struggling to keep buried.
"You're quiet," he says.
Only that.
No accusation. No concern. Just a fact placed gently between us.
My chest tightens. 'Quiet' can mean anything. Quiet can mean fear. Quiet can mean guilt. Quiet can mean I'm thinking too much.
"I'm listening," I say.
The words come out soft, careful. Chosen. Susan's voice, not mine. Susan always knew how to sound present without revealing anything at all.
A low hum leaves him, thoughtful.
His hand lifts, adjusting his cufflink with deliberate slowness. As it lowers, his knuckles brush my wrist.
An accident.
I don't move.
My pulse spikes anyway, sharp and sudden, echoing in my ears. I keep my gaze fixed ahead, willing my breathing to remain steady, normal, unremarkable.
"You remember this road?" he asks.
The question lands heavier than it should.
For half a second, my mind blanks. Then it scrambles, racing through fragments of conversations I wasn't part of. Things Susan had said. Complaints she'd made without thinking.
"Yes," I answer after a careful pause. "You hate it at night."
Silence.
The moment stretches thin, fragile.
Then, "Mm."
Relief washes through me so quickly it almost makes my head spin. I keep my face neutral, my body still, even as tension drains from my shoulders in small, invisible increments.
He doesn't look at me, but I feel his attention settle anyway. Quiet, observant. Like he's listening for something beneath my words.
The car turns. My body tilts with the motion, and my knee brushes his.
I freeze.
He doesn't pull away.
Neither do I.
The contact is minimal, almost nothing, but it lights every nerve in my body. I focus on the window again, on the passing darkness, on anything that isn't the awareness of how close he is.
His eyes flick downward. Briefly. Precisely.
Then back ahead.
"You'll get used to it," he says.
The words are vague enough to mean nothing and everything at once.
I nod even though he isn't looking.
I will get through this.I have to.Because if the mask slips, there's no undoing it.Because too many lives balance on my ability to stay convincing.
The car slows.
I look up before I can stop myself.
The house rises out of the dark, tall and imposing, all sharp lines and warm light spilling from its windows. It doesn't look welcoming. It looks inevitable.
My breath catches.
This time, Elijah notices.
Not the fear exactly. Just the way my attention locks, the way something shifts in me before I can hide it.
A faint curve touches his mouth. Not unkind. Not indulgent.
Knowing.
The car comes to a stop.
He steps out first. Cold night air rushes in as the door opens beside me. I remain seated for a second longer than necessary, my hands braced against the leather seat.
I could run.
The thought flashes bright and reckless. I picture the gate. The road beyond it. The sound of my own footsteps fading into the dark. I wouldn't make it far. I know that. But the idea flares anyway, desperate and brief.
Elijah turns back toward me.
He doesn't say my name.
He simply holds his hand out.
Waiting.
Not impatient. Not uncertain. As though the ending has already been decided, and he's merely allowing me the dignity of choosing how quickly to arrive at it.
My chest tightens.
If I don't take it, everything fractures.If I do, there's no pretending this is temporary.
I place my hand in his.
His fingers close around mine instantly, warm and firm, grounding and inescapable. The decision seals itself the moment our skin meets.
The house looms before us.
And I step forward, knowing the door will close behind me.