I should take the five hundred dollars. Get an Uber back to the shelter. Use the money for a bus ticket to anywhere-but-here. Sister Margaret would call it “a sensible choice.” My therapist, if I had one of those, would call it “a boundary.”
I think about that king-sized bed out there, and the way Giovanni looked at me when I was speaking my mind instead of playing his game, and the fact that for the first time in forever, I feelaliveinstead of just surviving.
That’s the real trap, isn’t it? Not the money. Not even the sex. It’s the feeling that maybe, just maybe, Imatterto someone again. Even if that someone is the worst possible choice.
I turn off the water and stand dripping in his luxury shower, watching rivulets race down my body. The bruises are already forming—little purple galaxies of warning signs that I’m choosing to misread as constellations.
I wrap the towel around me like it’s the last line of defense between me and a series of increasingly terrible decisions. A second towel goes around my hair, twisted with efficiency.
Deep breath. Armor up. I open the bathroom door.
Giovanni is stretched across the bed like some Renaissance painting of masculine repose—hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling with an intensity that suggests it might start confessing its sins any moment. He’s changed into gray sweatpants but no shirt.
I hover in the doorway, painfully aware that I’m naked under this towel.
“Um,” I begin eloquently. Pulitzer material, really.
“Closet’s yours,” he says without looking at me. “Wear whatever you want.”
No sarcastic nickname. No smirk. Just blank permission that feels worse than any barb.
The closet is smaller than his Riverview palace of pristine suits, but still obscenely organized. I open a built-in drawer tofind neatly folded athletic wear. I pull out a pair of black sweat shorts and a gray tank top with “U of P, HWT Crew” printed across the chest.
University of Pennsylvania. Because of course he went to an Ivy League school. And of course he was on the heavyweight rowing team. The man is a walking collection of villain origin story tropes.
I drop the towel and quickly pull on his clothes, trying not to notice how they smell like expensive laundry detergent and that indefinable Giovanni scent. The shorts hang precariously on my hips, and the tank is loose enough to swim in.
When I return, Giovanni hasn’t moved. Still staring at the ceiling like it contains the secrets of the universe. Or maybe just calculating interest rates on blood money. Who knows with him?
I hesitate at the edge of the bed, glancing at the leather couch across the room.
“Should I sleep on the?—”
“It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?” He doesn’t look at me.
Fair point. We’ve already crossed every line except maybe tax fraud together today. Sharing a mattress seems quaint by comparison.
I slip under the covers on the opposite side, maintaining maximum distance while still technically being in the same bed. Then I mirror his position—flat on my back, hands behind my head, staring up at the same ceiling that’s apparently fascinating enough to fill a Grand Canyon of silence.
“I ran that background check on you,” he says finally.
My stomach drops through the mattress and probably keeps going straight through the floor. Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he?
“Cleveland,” he continues. “Parents were academics. Car accident when you were nineteen. Dropped out of Case Western,two semesters in community college—then, the scholarship money ran out.”
Each fact lands like a punch. Precise. Clinical. The CliffsNotes version of my tragedy.
“You had quite the following online. Book reviews. Seventy-five thousand followers.”
I feel my jaw tighten, teeth grinding together. The rage bubbles up hot and fast, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing it. Instead, I roll over, turning my back to him with deliberate slowness.
“Emmaleen.”
I say nothing.
“I’m not going to ask,” he says.
“Ask what?” The words snap out, brittle as kindling.