His voice becomes background noise—not because I’m bored.
Because I can’t stay present in a room where I’m being quietly dismantled.
I start to form a to-do list in my head. Thank god for my job, giving me a reprieve from his constant monitoring. A sense of self. My PR clients aren’t condescending to me, they listen to my advice about social media. They let me go to work for them. They trust me to know what I’m doing.
My phone buzzes on the cushion beside me. I glance down.
A message.
Soren.
My body reacts—sharp and immediate, like it recognizes oxygen.
I tilt the screen toward myself.
Soren:
You should. I’d show you the best food in the city.
We’ve never really messaged like this.
My throat tightens, but it’s different this time. Not humiliation. Something almost warm.
I can’t help it. I smile. A real one. Small, but real.
Across from me, Adrian stops talking.
I look up.
His eyes are on my phone—and not casually. He looks irritated, entitled to know who it is.
“What’s that?” he asks.
My stomach drops.
“Just a message,” I say.
“From who?”
The question lands like a slap.
“It’s… Soren.”
He frowns. “Soren who?”
I hesitate.
Why am I hesitating? Why does my body feel like it’s doing something wrong?
“Soren,” I repeat. “An old friend from college.”
He watches me for a beat too long.
Then he laughs softly, like I’ve said something cute. “Mmm,” he murmurs. “Old friend.”
I don’t like the way he says it—like he doesn’t believe me. Like he’s already decided what it means.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Be careful,” he says.