Adeline's POV

---

I'm surely going to get arrested for this.

I mutter it under my breath as I approach a Mercedes G-Class, phone raised. October sunlight hits the glossy black paint, the car glowing against the gray Manhattan sidewalk, screaming money I'll never have.

Just another Friday on the Upper East Side. The street runs with its usual chaos. Businessmen rushing with heavy briefcases, a delivery cyclist almost committing vehicular manslaughter against a tourist squinting at Google Maps. 

Me? I'm here with one goal. Borrow a little luxury for my Instagram.

My feed is becoming a graveyard, my grand plan to escape poverty by turning into a content creator overnight is flopping. Grad school doesn't pay for itself, and my two part-time jobs barely leave time for sleep, let alone proper photoshoots. 

So I make do. I hunt for decent light, throw on the best outfit I own, and fake my way into these neighborhoods.

Today's ensemble is high fashion at its finest. An oversized cream sweater hanging off my shoulders, twelve dollars at a Brooklyn thrift store. Jeans with a knee hole I didn't pay extra for. "It's vintage, darling," the trader said. I was gullible enough to buy it. My brown boots have seen better years.

Step into the right light, angle just so, and I could pass for anyone.

Anyone who owns a car worth more than my entire student loan debt.

I line up near the driver's side door and check my reflection in a shop window. Messy waves because I skipped the blow dryer. Or more like I didn't pay my electric bill on time. In this sunlight my hazel eyes swirl close to gold.

That'll do. The internet will believe it.

I'm mid-pose, phone lifted, when I hear that laugh. Every muscle in my back locks cause I know that high-pitched sound. Everyone at Columbia does.

Bianca Fucking Moretti. Queen of the trust-fund babies.

Engine noise rumbles through the street before her cherry-red convertible pulls alongside the G-Class. Her blindingly blonde hair whips through the wind like a walking shampoo commercial. Designer sunglasses perched perfectly on her head, and three friends draped across the leather seats as if placed there for a magazine shoot.

I glue myself to the car. ‘Please don't see me.’

"Adeline?" Her voice carries out. "Is that you?"

Nooo, it's my twin sister, Chadeline. My eyes almost roll to the back of my head.

I lower my phone, trying to look like I'm doing anything else, checking messages, reading a caption. Certainly not posing next to a car I'll never sit inside.

Bianca slides her sunglasses down her nose, eyes gleaming. "Nice car."

Her friends shift forward, familiar faces from campus, the ones who spend more on coffee than I spend on groceries. One whispers, glancing at my boots. The rest giggle.

"Is it yours?" Bianca smiles, head tilting to the side. She knows I take the train, knows about my part-time jobs and the way I count coins at the Trader Joe's checkout line. My taxes get filed in a bracket that can't even spell Mercedes.

‘No, it's not mine, you demonic barbie.’ My mouth parts to say exactly that but it has its own plan.

"It is."

Why did I say that?

Four years of Bianca's dominance pressed into my chest at once, years of never measuring up. Showing up with Tupperware leftovers while everyone else ordered $40 sushi, rotating the same thrift finds while the rest swapped stories about their dads arranging internships over scotch. She pulled me from the Milano program without blinking. One call from her father and five months of my work vanished. My professor called it a funding issue, like I was stupid to buy that.

I want to win against her, just once. Even if it's a massive, legally binding lie.

"Really?" Her tone dares me.

‘Tell her you're joking. Don't dig this hole.’ But I won't hand this moment to her.

"You don't think I can afford it?"

"Then prove it," Bianca says, leaning back against her seat.

Phones are out, her friends look way too eager to watch my public execution. They're going to talk about this until graduation.

"Hi lovies!" Bianca goes live, turning her camera toward me. "Our darling Adeline bought a G-Wagon! We absolutely have to celebrate with her."

Chills straight down my spine. I am officially past the point of no return. Back out now and I'm a pathetic fraud for the rest of my years at Columbia.

My feet take agonizing steps toward the driver's side door. My hand wraps around the handle, the metal warm from the sun. I've watched enough viral skits to know the play. Pretend I forgot my keys in a café nearby, act annoyed, walk away with my dignity intact.

My brain logs off when the handle clicks and the door swings open under my hand.

My heartbeat gets so loud everything else disappears.

There is someone inside!

A man mid text stares up at me. Dark hair swept back, gray eyes going wide, a suit tailored so perfectly it should be illegal. He looks like someone who has never once in his life been interrupted, hands still hovering over his phone, frozen there.

We stare at each other.

I am so dead. I should pick up my thrifted boots and run until the city swallows my shame but Bianca and her entourage are practically standing in the convertible to see what's happening, and there is only one thought left. Commit or be humiliated forever.

My body moves before my brain logs back on.

I slide in.

Everything happens in slow motion, exactly how the opening scene of the cheesy Chinese dramas I binge watch when I'm depressed starts. Expensive leather presses under my weight, solid resistance where I expected empty space. I land hard, a second too late to fix any of it. I am sitting on him, a total stranger. A lap that did not give consent.

We both turn into statues. His arms lift wide, hands spreading open as if I'm a ticking time bomb. A muscle moves in his jaw, his breath catches, fanning warm air across my chin as his eyes travel over my face.

His cologne reaches me, cedar wrapped in the smoky embrace of oud wood, the kind that lingers in elevator air long after the man has gone. 

I pull the door shut, hands trembling. "Please," I whisper. "Wait for them to leave and I swear I'll explain everything."

Outside, Bianca's convertible makes a show of its engine, phones lowering. Through the tinted glass I see her face one last time, the smirk faltering.

The light flashes green. They drive off into the city.

The air inside the car sits heavy. The air conditioner does nothing to cool the heat burning under my skin.

I scramble to the passenger seat and press myself against the door. "I'm so sorry. I swear I'm not usually a carjacker…I'm so sorry."

He straightens one sleeve, whatever shock crossed his face already faded, replaced by a calm that closes my chest harder than the panic did.

"At least," he says, the faintest trace of an Italian accent underneath it, refined down to something that only comes with old money and boarding schools, "tell me why you're sitting in my car."

The explanation tumbles out.

"So there was this girl, she saw me posing near the car, asked if it was mine, told me to prove it. I panicked, the door opened, I thought it was empty, I sat down, and I'm really sorry. If there's dry cleaning, detailing, I'll pay. This is probably trespassing, it's definitely trespassing but please don't file a lawsuit.”

When I finally stop the silence stretches long enough that I start calculating how fast I can reach the door handle.

He glances toward the street where Bianca disappeared, then back at me. His fingers rest flat against his knee while his gaze runs the length of my face like he's reading a document he didn't request.

"So." He leans back. "You trespassed. Lied. And now you expect my cooperation."

"I'm not expecting anything. I'll turn myself in to the police if you want." My hand finds the door handle.

He nods. "Very well."

I stop and turn back. His expression gives nothing away, except a spark in his eyes. "You'll accompany me to several events over the next month, consider it restitution.”

"Sorry, what?"

"I need a companion for social functions. Galas, dinners, fundraisers. You improvise well under pressure." His gaze meets mine. "One month. Then we're even."

"You want me to go to events with you? Sir this isn't a Chinese series…" He cuts me off.

"Agree, and I'll let this slide. Unless you'd prefer I report the incident." He tilts his head. "I imagine the police would find the security footage quite entertaining."

I gulp, this is basically blackmailing but I got myself into this and I can't let a criminal record reach Columbia's Dean.

Hold on. The way out is right there. Pretend for a month, skip expulsion, avoid a scene, let Bianca's story fall apart on its own. The same bullheaded pride that put me in this car refuses to let me back down. How hard could this go?

"One month." I lift my chin. "Then we're done."

He holds out his hand. "Albert Rossi."

I've heard the name somewhere, I can't remember where through the adrenaline.

His hand is warm when I take it, his grip firm. That's all. I still pull mine away too fast.

"Adeline Carter."

He produces a business card from his wallet, heavyweight stock, his name and one word underneath it. CEO. My chest does a slow, full rotation.

"My assistant will send the details. First event Saturday." His gaze moves over my thrifted sweater, my wrecked jeans, the bare slope of my shoulder where the fabric slipped. "Do you own formalwear?"

Heat moves up my neck. "What do you think I own? Don't worry, I'll manage."

His mouth almost moves and he flattens it. "I'll handle the wardrobe. Part of the agreement."

"Um, since we're organizing the terms." I clear my throat. "Do I get paid as well? Like an appearance fee?”

A full, devastatingly handsome smile breaks across his face.

"No."

Before I can retort he nods toward the door. I grab the handle and step out, the door closing behind me with a final click. The engine purrs as the G-Class pulls into traffic and drifts toward Park Avenue.

I look down at the card in my hand, his cologne still clinging to my sweater.

My screen lights up.

‘Unknown number: Gala event Saturday 7 PM. Car will collect you at 6:30. Address on file. Dress will arrive Friday. From M. Romano, Executive Assistant to Mr. Rossi.’

They have my address just like that. Of course they do. Men like Albert Rossi don't do anything halfway, though apparently too greedy to pay me for my premium presence.

The screen lights up again. Different number entirely.

‘Walk away from Albert Rossi before he destroys you. This is your only warning.’

My smile disappears. When I look up, a sleek black car idles across the street, its windows tinted far past the point of seeing through.

By the time I blink, it's gone.

Albert's POV

---

My back settles against the leather seat as Julian eases the car into traffic. Manhattan swallows us almost immediately, taxis leaning on their horns, pedestrians pouring across crosswalks as though traffic lights are polite suggestions.

An hour ago, my biggest concern was approving the last stack of contracts waiting on Matteo's desk.

Then a woman climbed into my car. Onto my lap. I still wasn't entirely sure how that had happened.

The city slides past the window in streaks of glass and steel. Julian says nothing. He rarely does unless I ask a question, which is one of the reasons he's lasted longer than most people in my employment.

I look out at the afternoon traffic and find myself thinking about the woman in the thrift-store sweater. She probably thought that was the end of it. It wasn't.

My phone vibrates before we've gone a single block.

Missed calls from Matteo. Six board emails marked urgent, which usually means they can wait until tomorrow. A message from my mother asking whether I'll be joining her for dinner, as though family dinners and billion-dollar negotiations belong in the same category.

I dismiss everything else and open a chat with Matteo.

‘Run a background check. Adeline Carter. Columbia graduate student. Comprehensive. One hour.’

The typing indicator appears almost instantly.

‘Already started. Saw the street camera footage. Interesting choice, sir.’

Of course he did.

Matteo has a habit of arriving at the answer before most people have finished asking the question. It saves me an unreasonable amount of time.

I should have called security.

The decision would've taken one tap. She trespassed. She lied. Legally, the situation was painfully simple. Instead, I let her explain. Now the scent of cheap floral shampoo still lingers in the back seat, and I catch myself replaying the look on her face when she realized the car wasn't empty.

I usually forget people within minutes. Meetings, Investors, Politicians. She'd been gone nearly twenty minutes. I still remembered the look on her face.

Women usually arrive with something to gain. They know who I am before we shake hands. They know which smile to wear, which stories to tell, which version of themselves they've decided I should meet.

Adeline Carter climbed into my car because she'd backed herself into a corner and saw no other way out. Then looked me in the eye and apologized as though honesty could somehow undo the last thirty seconds.

It may be the worst plan I've witnessed in years.

It is also the most honest.

The car slows for a red light. Beyond the window, Someone had left lights on in the north tower again. Facilities would hear about it Monday.

My reflection stares back at me.

What exactly am I doing?

I don't need a companion. I need the questions to stop. My mother has asked three times this month when I'm planning to settle down. The board has become increasingly interested in the empty seat beside me at charity dinners. The financial press has started treating my private life like a quarterly report. One magazine even devoted two pages to debating whether I was secretly gay.

Ridiculous.

None of them cared about the truth. They cared about the story.

‘Optics matter, Albert.’ My father's voice hasn't changed in months. ‘Men like you without partners invite speculation. Stop giving people something to speculate about.’

The arrangement solves the problem. Six events, One month. A woman with no ties to my world and every reason to disappear when it's over.

Simple.

The light turns green and Julian drives on. A notification ding carrying in Matteo's report.

‘Adeline Marie Carter, twenty-four, Columbia grad student, business and marketing, honors, two jobs, no criminal record, father gone since she was twelve, mother out of town, no siblings, scholarship kid, living well below what her thrifted sweater would suggest people assume.’

I scan through twice.

The pieces land now, the thrift store sweater, the ripped jeans, the split second of real fear underneath the bluff when that girl pushed her into a corner. She'd lied but the fear had been real.

I'd seen enough rehearsed performances to know the difference.

---

The car pulls up to my building, fifty-three floors with the city spread out below it. Forty of those floors belonging to Rossi International, the penthouse belonging to me.

Julian steps out and opens the door. "Sir."

"Circle back," I hear myself say.

His eyes find mine in the rearview mirror, brows lifting. "Sir?"

"To where we were. Now."

He nods and starts the car without another word.

Per Matteo's coordinates, she's stepping out of a coffee shop around the corner, my card still held in both hands like she hasn't decided whether it's real. I roll the window down. "Get in."

She flinches, then the challenge surfaces almost as fast. "Why?"

It almost makes me laugh, because nobody questions me, not with an actual question mark at the end of it. "You look like you're about to pass out. I prefer my companions conscious.”

"Companion," she repeats, sarcasm threading. "Should I curtsy too, or is a polite nod enough?"

One eyebrow lifts on its own. A smirk starts and I don't try very hard to stop it.

She takes a step, hesitates, then opens the door and slides in, pressing herself against the opposite side like distance is going to help her.

Smart girl.

Julian pulls away. I leave the partition open, she thought she hid her reactions well except her face reacts to everything.

She fidgets with her jacket sleeve, stares out the window, fingers twisting together in her lap before pulling apart on their own.

I place a call and switch to Italian halfway through it, talking to Giovanni about quarterly projections and the Milan expansion. I catch her watching my reflection in the glass, gathering details the same way I did with her an hour ago.

The call ends and silence fills the space. She breaks first. "Where are we going?”

"My office. To formalize our arrangement."

"You mean the part where I'm locked in for a month?"

"The agreement where you attend six events and avoid criminal charges."

She processes this for a second. "Six events? You said a month."

"Six events over the course of a month. Did you think I required your presence daily?"

Color floods her face and she turns back to the window without another word.

—

A soft chime and the doors open into my office, floor-to-ceiling windows, Central Park spread out below.

She takes it all in, turning in a slow circle, her eyes moving across the room without hurry, like she's not going to give me the reaction I'm waiting for. Her fingers drift toward the Rothko near the far wall before she stops herself.

"You work here," she states.

"Yes."

Before she can say more, the door opens and Matteo walks in with his tablet and a leather portfolio, his eyes moving to Adeline and taking in the ripped jeans, the oversized sweater, the scuffed boots. One eyebrow climbs while the rest of his face stays professionally unreadable.

"Mr. Rossi," he says, in English clearly aimed at her, "the documents you requested.”

I gesture toward the seating area. "Miss Carter and I are formalizing an arrangement.”

His other eyebrow joins the first, and Matteo is too disciplined to say what he's clearly thinking, though I can guess exactly what it is.

He spreads the contract across the table while she perches at the edge of her chair, half ready to bolt.

"Six events," I begin, sliding the contract across the table. "Appropriate attire will be provided. Discretion is required. In exchange, no charges filed, no notification to your university.”

Her fingers close around her bag strap and she clears her throat once, then again, like the first attempt didn't quite work.

"What kind of events?”

"Galas. Charity functions. Business dinners. Social obligations requiring a companion."

"Why do you need a companion?" She glances around the office, at me, at everything surrounding us, the answer is supposed to be obvious. "You're you. Surely you have women who'd do this without needing to be coerced.”

"I have women with agendas. You have something else."

Her eyes narrow. "So I'm your charity case?”

"You're my solution."

"To what problem?”

I let the question hang and push the contract closer instead."Sign, and we proceed. Refuse, and I make a call."

She picks up the pen Matteo offers. It wavers between her fingers, the pulse in her wrist beating visible against her skin. She reads more carefully than I expected, lips moving on certain clauses, a habit she's probably unaware of.

"What's expected of me at these events? Specifically."

"Appear at my side. Make conversation. Allow me to introduce you as my companion. Conduct yourself appropriately."

"Appropriately how."

"Be yourself. That's what I need."

Her eyes snap to mine. "You're not paying me."

"No. I'm covering potential legal expenses. Indirectly."

She stares at the contract, at the pen in her hand. Six seconds without movement. I count them.

Then she signs, fast, uneven loops across the signature line. Her hand stays on the page longer than necessary, index finger pressed flat against the paper.

Matteo collects the pages. "I'll arrange the wardrobe consultation and send the details for Saturday's event." He leaves the office.

Adeline stands, grips her bag, nearly catches her boot on the chair leg backing toward the door. I walk her to the elevator.

Before she steps in, I hold out my business card again.

She frowns. "You already gave me this.”

"Read it again."

She traces the text. "Albert Rossi. CEO. Rossi International."

The color leaves her face. The card drops and she catches it at the last moment

"Oh my god. You're that Albert Rossi."

"Welcome to my world, Miss Carter. Try not to embarrass yourself."

The doors close.

A notification ping.

‘Sir. The background check flagged something.’

‘What kind of something?’ I type back.

‘Someone else ran the same check. Seventy-two hours ago. Before you ever met her.’

‘Who?’

‘Unknown. Three proxy layers. Whoever it was didn't want to be found.’

The elevator number descends. Forty. Thirty. Twenty.

Someone was watching her before she ever sat in my car.

Adeline Carter just got a lot more interesting.

Adeline's POV

---

City noise fades the second I step off the sidewalk, the address Matteo texted leading to a door tucked between a gallery and a private bank. There's no sign, no window display, just gleaming steel and a small intercom button that costs more than my laptop did.

I stop in front of the door with my thumb hovering over the buzzer. Five minutes pass. Five whole minutes. I could've walked away at least twenty times by now.

A woman in head-to-toe Chanel glides past without glancing at me, which is the most New York interaction I've had all week, her heels clicking against the pavement with that assurance of people who have nothing to prove.

I glance down at my jeans, the rip in the knee that used to feel vintage now feeling cheap. My sweater has a loose thread at the hem. I tug it and the thread gets longer and longer. A frustrated sigh slips out, I basically rip off the thread.

The steel door throws my reflection back at me. Ginger hair that lost the argument with my hairbrush this morning. Hazel eyes that scream "I make questionable decisions." And skin pale enough to advertise vitamin D supplements.

Albert's voice surfaces. ‘Try not to embarrass yourself.’

That's what I've been doing for years, apparently. What can I say, I'm a walking magnet.

Last night I grabbed my laptop and finally put my celebrity-stalking skills to good use. I got back a profile of Albert Rossi, CEO of Rossi International. Pages of results piling long, covering Forbes profiles, Financial Times coverage, acquisitions that reshaped entire industries overnight, a man who moved through boardrooms the way weather moves through cities. You don't just see it coming and you only understand it after.

Feared. That was the word one article used. Not the respected CEO everyone admires. 

One photo caught me longer than the rest, a charity gala three years ago, him standing at the edge of the frame, not posing but watching, the kind of man a room adjusts itself around without realizing it's happening.

I stared at that photo longer than I should have.

Then I went back to the warning text. *Walk away from Albert Rossi before he destroys you. This is your only warning.* I ran the number twice. Untraceable, no name attached. Someone who knew enough to warn me, someone who didn't want to be found.

I didn't sleep much after that.

Before I can back out, the door opens. My fingers never graze the buzzer.

A woman stands there, tall, dressed head to toe in black, hair pulled back so tightly I feel sorry for her scalp. Her eyes sweep over me and I feel every flaw surface under that gaze.

"Mon dieu." She circles me, the way you examine something broken before deciding if it's worth fixing. "We have work to do."

Yes, a lot of work.

"I'm Adeline Carter. I have an appointment."

"Oui. I know who you are." She gestures inside. "I am Colette. Come."

The boutique is all cream silk and blinding light, dresses hanging on the walls, not a single price tag visible, because if you have to ask, you definitely cannot afford them.

My sneakers squeak against the marble floor and I try to lessen it but the soles don't listen.

Someone materializes at my elbow with champagne on a silver tray. I take it because I don't know what else to do with my hands. No way I'm drinking the exquisite liquid given my throat is plastered shut.

"We begin with measurements." Colette snaps her fingers and an assistant appears with a tape measure. "Then we discuss what Mr. Rossi requires."

The way she says *requires* raises the hair on my arms.

"He didn't really explain," I say.

"He never does." She gestures toward a platform surrounded by mirrors. "Remove your clothes. Everything except undergarments."

I stutter. "What?"

"I cannot work with fabric covering fabric." She tilts her head. "You are shy?"

"I'm human."

Her lips twitch. "The changing room is there. Five minutes."

The changing room is bigger than my bathroom at home, plush carpet, soft lighting reflecting on a velvet bench. I stand at the full-length mirror, watching my reflection.

I signed a contract to escort a billionaire I barely know, a man the internet barely has information about, a man someone felt the need to warn me about.

My hands shake as I pull off my sweater. My jeans pool at my feet, the broken zipper still fixed with a safety pin. My bra is clean but has lived longer than most teens, and I got it in Target, five for twenty dollars.

I stare at myself, pale skin, freckles across my shoulders, a body that works fine for my life but probably reads as a problem in here.

I step out without giving myself the chance to change my mind.

Colette points to the platform without a word.

Five mirrors return my reflection from every angle, five versions of the same girl who got a warning text and showed up anyway.

The assistants work fast, bust, waist, hips, inseam. Colette watches, calling numbers in French.

"The waist is fine." She moves around me. "The shoulders need work. Does she always slouch?"

I pull my spine straight. "I'm standing right here."

"Oui. And you are slouching." Her fingers press between my shoulder blades, against the knot I've always carried. "You carry tension like a stone."

She isn't wrong. My shoulders have been up around my ears since last night.

They discuss my proportions in French, my college French rusted over, but what I catch makes heat crawl up my face. Too pale. The hair is lovely but needs proper care. The posture, mon dieu. And those hands.

I look down at my hands, short nails because I bite them when I'm anxious, cuticles I never bother with, knuckles dry from the weather and cheap soap.

‘Walk away from Albert Rossi before he destroys you.’

I curl my fingers in.

"The body is strong," Colette announces. "We enhance. We do not reconstruct." She meets my eyes in the mirror. "You may dress."

When I return, fabric swatches cover a long table. She holds shades against my skin and discards without softening her conclusions.

"The auburn hair." She selects a midnight blue swatch. "Yes. This."

The color pulls colors out of my hazel eyes, green they don't usually show, gold flecks I tend to miss.

"Six events. Six dresses. All must tell the right story."

"What story?"

"That you belong at his side." She sets the swatches down and looks at me directly, really looks, for the first time. "Mr. Rossi has many women who want to be seen with him, beautiful, high class, women who know how to move in his world."

Ma’am, I don't need more lists added to my insecurities.

"Then why me? Since he could easily get those women…"

"Because they bore him." She cuts me off. "You do not. That is worth more than all their polish combined."

The words land wrong. A man like Albert Rossi gets bored fast. But the things that hold his attention don't tend to walk away from it intact.

We go through six dresses. Every one is art. Every one feels awkward on me.

"You are fighting them," Colette observes. "You wear them like armor."

"Because that's exactly what they feel like."

"You're afraid."

"Completely."

"Of what?"

"That I'll ruin this. That everyone in that room will know the second I walk in."

"They will know."

My stomach sinks.

Colette shrugs. "Good."

I blink.

"People who belong become invisible." She smooths the sleeve. "You won't.”

She pulls a midnight blue dress from the rack. I slip it on, the fabric moving over my skin without resistance. It has no embellishment, nor decoration, what you only recognize when you realize how effortless it looks. The neckline settles clean across my collarbones, the skirt falling below my knees with a subtle slit that suggests without displaying.

I face the mirror.

The woman looking back is me but not me. The dress pulls color into my hair and skin I didn't know was there. My posture reads like a choice, not survival. I square my shoulders without thinking, reaching toward a version of myself this dress seems to already believe exists.

Colette appears behind my reflection. "You have something they do not, authenticity. Do not lose it while you learn their games."

My throat pulls. "Can I really be myself and fit in?"

She is silent, then honest. "That is something you have to figure out."

I could definitely pay her to be my motivation to get through grad school, except I'm broke.

My screen lights up. My hands freeze, the same way it did last night, staring at that warning text in the dark.

Unknown number.

I let it ring once, twice. Pick up on the third with the phone pressed to my ear.

"Miss Carter."

It's Albert. That controlled, even tone from the contract signing. Doesn't bother to greet.

"Mr. Rossi."

"Colette tells me you're difficult."

I glance at Colette. She studies her nails with complete innocence.

"I prefer selective."

"Saturday. Six thirty. Don't be late."

"I wasn't plan..."

The line hangs.

Colette holds out the garment bag. "He called the moment you put on the dress."

I take it without a word.

I don't ask how he knew. I'm not sure I want the answer to how many eyes are on me.

I slip the phone back into my pocket.

Albert Rossi already knows more about me than I know about him.

Somewhere out there, someone thinks that's enough reason to run.