"Sir! Sir, please let me look at that!"

The hotel manager came rushing over, clutching a white first-aid box like a shield. He looked terrified, his eyes darting between the blood dripping from Damon's hand and the expensive carpet.

Damon didn't look at the manager. He looked at Adonis, then tried to look past him to where Adria was cowering. With an impatient growl, he snatched a linen napkin from a nearby table and wrapped it crudely around his palm. The white fabric blossomed red almost instantly.

"I'm fine," Damon rasped, his voice sounding like gravel grinding together. "Back off."

The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on. The organizers, desperate to salvage the evening, began ushering guests toward the dining area with overly loud voices and strained smiles.

"Dinner is served! Please, everyone, find your seats!"

Adria felt a hand on her back. It was her mother, Mrs. Barr. Her grip was firm, bordering on painful. "Pull yourself together, Adria," she hissed in her ear. "Don't make a scene. We are at the main table."

Adria wanted to vomit. She wanted to leave. But the social contract of her world was a steel trap. She let herself be guided to the large round table near the front of the room.

She sat down, her knees knocking together. She reached for her water glass, needing something to do with her hands.

Then the chair opposite her was pulled out.

Damon sat down. He didn't sit like a civilized guest; he sprawled, taking up space, his bandaged hand resting on the tablecloth like a declaration of war. He was directly across from her. There was nowhere to look but at him.

Campbell slid into the seat next to him, smoothing her silk dress. She looped her arm through Damon's uninjured one, leaning her head on his shoulder. "Oh my god, Damon, you scared me," she murmured, loud enough for the table to hear. She looked at Adria with a triumphant, pitying smile.

The rest of the table filled up. Ollie and Zack, Damon's childhood friends, took the remaining seats. They looked like they would rather be anywhere else.

Ollie, never one to read the room, cleared his throat. He looked from Damon's bleeding hand to Adria's pale face and let out a nervous chuckle. "Well, this is cozy. Just like the old days, right?"

Adria's hands were shaking so badly she had to tuck them under her thighs. She dug her fingernails into her palms, trying to use the physical pain to ground herself.

Damon didn't speak. He just watched her. He saw the way her shoulders were hunched, the way she was making herself small. His jaw worked, a muscle feathering under his skin.

Waiters descended, placing appetizers in front of them. Oysters on the half shell.

The smell hit Adria instantly-the brine, the raw metallic scent of the sea. It triggered a violent recoil in her body. Her stomach cramped hard. Since the miscarriage, since the hemorrhage that had nearly drained her life away in that apartment, her body rejected raw food. It rejected the smell of blood and brine.

She stared at the plate, bile rising in her throat.

"You know," Ollie continued, oblivious to the homicide stare Damon was giving him, "I'm surprised you came, Adria. You used to avoid these things like the plague. Especially... well, you know."

Especially to avoid Damon. That was what he didn't say.

The words felt like a scalpel slicing through her composure. It reminded her of the rumors, the whispers that she had run away because she was weak, because she couldn't handle the pressure of being with a Hansen.

Adria's face went paper-white. She reached for her water glass again, but her hand jerked. Water sloshed over the rim, staining the tablecloth.

Thud.

A dull, heavy sound came from under the table.

"Ow! Fuck!" Ollie yelped, jumping in his seat. He glared at Damon. "You kicked me!"

Damon didn't even blink. His eyes were cold, dead sharks. "Shut up, Ollie."

The command was low, but it carried a threat of violence that silenced the entire table.

Campbell didn't like the attention Damon was paying to Adria, negative or not. She picked up a napkin, dipping it in her water glass. "Here, let me clean your cuff, honey," she cooed, dabbing at Damon's sleeve, though there was no blood there. It was a performance. He is mine. I touch him.

Damon flinched. His instinct was to pull away-Adria saw the muscles in his arm bunch. But then his eyes flicked to Adria. She was looking down, refusing to witness their intimacy.

Damon didn't move. He let Campbell touch him, staring at the top of Adria's head with a look of tortured frustration.

Adria forced herself to pick up her fork. She had to eat. She had to look normal. She cut a piece of the garnish, the silverware screeching against the china.

Heads turned. Adria dropped the fork, her cheeks burning. "Sorry," she whispered. Her voice was a broken rasp.

She looked at her plate. The oysters seemed to be mocking her. She couldn't do it.

Damon was watching her plate. He saw the way she swallowed, the sheen of sweat on her upper lip. He remembered. He remembered how she used to love seafood. And he saw the revulsion now.

He raised his hand, snapping his fingers at a passing waiter.

"Take this away," Damon said, pointing at Adria's plate.

Adria's head snapped up. Campbell froze, her hand still on Damon's arm.

"Bring her the soup," Damon ordered. "Hot. Cream of mushroom."

The waiter hesitated. "Sir, the menu is set-"

"Did I ask?" Damon's voice was a whip crack. "Bring the soup."

He turned his gaze back to Adria. His expression was a mask of sneering disdain, but his actions were confusingly precise.

"You look like a ghost," he said, his voice dripping with venom. "I don't need you passing out and ruining my dinner. It's depressing to look at."

The words were cruel. They were meant to hurt. But the soup... he remembered she liked mushroom soup when she was sick.

Adria stared at him, confusion warring with the pain in her chest. "Thank you," she whispered.

Damon watched her, his anger warring with a terrifying realization. She wasn't fighting back. The Adria he knew would have thrown the drink in his face. This Adria... she was broken. And the thought made him want to burn the world down.

The soup arrived, steaming and fragrant. Adria took a small sip, the warmth spreading through her chest, momentarily easing the knot in her stomach. It was a small mercy in a room full of knives.

Campbell, sensing she was losing the center of gravity, decided to reclaim it. She turned to Ollie, her voice pitched to carry.

"So, Ollie, did you hear? I'm finally going on the Hansen ski trip this year." She beamed, resting her chin on her hand. "Mrs. Hansen practically insisted."

Ollie looked at Damon, sweat beading on his forehead. "Uh, right. Yeah. If... if Damon is cool with it."

"Of course he is," Campbell laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "I'm practically family now. Six years is a long time, right, Damon?"

Adria felt the blood drain from her face. Six years. She had been gone six years. Campbell had been there for six years. It sounded like a marriage in all but name.

Zack, trying to diffuse the bomb ticking in the center of the table, turned to Adria. "So, Adria. How long are you back for? Are you heading back to Boston after this?"

The table went quiet. Even the silverware noises seemed to dampen.

Damon didn't move, but Adria saw his hand-the one wrapped in the bloody napkin-tighten around his wine glass. His knuckles were white. He was listening.

Adria set her spoon down. She dabbed her mouth with the napkin, buying herself a second. She needed to end this. She needed to sever the tie before she suffocated.

"I'm not going back to Boston," she said. Her voice was steady, surprisingly so. "And I'm not staying in D.C."

Damon's head snapped up. For a fraction of a second, there was something in his eyes-hope? Vulnerability? It was gone so fast she thought she imagined it.

"I've accepted a position at Nanxi Affiliated Hospital," Adria said, looking at the centerpiece of white roses. "In the trauma center."

Damon's eyes went wide. The hope vanished, replaced by a shock that quickly curdled into fury.

Campbell let out a scoff. "Nanxi City? God, that's literally across the country. You really want to get away, don't you?"

"Nanxi City?" Damon's voice was a low rumble, vibrating through the table.

Adria forced herself to meet his gaze. It was like looking into a storm. "Yes. They have one of the best trauma teams in the nation."

Damon let out a short, harsh laugh. He leaned forward, his large frame casting a shadow over her. "Is it for the job, Adria? Or are you just running away again? That's what you do best, isn't it?"

The accusation hit her like a physical blow. Running away. If only he knew. If only he knew she had crawled away to save her life.

"I'm starting over, Damon," she said quietly.

"Starting over," he repeated, tasting the words like poison. "Is that what you call it?"

The air was too thin. The walls were closing in. Adria couldn't do this. Not here. Not with Campbell hanging on him, not with the memory of the baby she lost screaming in her head.

She stood up abruptly. Her chair scraped loudly against the parquet floor, a harsh, ugly sound that drew eyes from neighboring tables.

"Excuse me," she said, clutching her purse. "I'm not feeling well."

She didn't wait for a response. She turned and walked away, her heels clicking rapidly on the floor. She didn't run, but it was close.

Damon started to rise, his chair tipping back.

"Damon, don't," Campbell hissed, grabbing his arm with both hands. "The press is watching. Don't you dare leave me here."

Damon looked down at her hands on his arm. His face twisted in revulsion. "Get off me."

He ripped his arm away, but the moment was lost. Adria was already through the double doors.

Damon stood there, chest heaving. He yanked at his bowtie, loosening it as if it were a noose. He pulled his phone from his pocket, ignoring the stares of the entire room.

Outside, the night air hit Adria's face, cold and biting. She shivered violently.

Goodbye, she thought, looking back at the glowing windows of the estate. Goodbye to all of it.

Adonis came jogging out the front door. "Adria! Wait! Are you okay?"

She shook her head, tears finally spilling over. "Get me a car, Adonis. Please. I need to leave. Now."

Up on the terrace, hidden by the shadows of a pillar, Damon watched her get into the black sedan. His face was unreadable, a mask of stone. He pressed the phone to his ear.

"It's me," he said to his assistant. "Find out her flight number. Now."

The Uber was five minutes away. Adria stood by the valet stand, shivering, but then a wave of nausea rolled over her so powerfully she doubled over. The soup. The stress. The look in Damon's eyes.

She turned and ran back into the hotel lobby, ignoring the startled look of the doorman. She sprinted toward the restrooms down the east corridor.

She didn't make it to the door. The sound of heavy footsteps and a familiar, booming voice made her freeze.

She ducked into a small alcove that housed a vending machine, pressing her back against the cold wall. Her heart was thudding so loudly she was sure he could hear it.

It was Damon. He was pacing in the corridor, his back to her. He was on the phone again.

"Campbell! I told you a thousand times!" He shouted, his voice echoing off the marble floors. He sounded frantic. Angry.

Adria clamped a hand over her mouth.

"Stay right where you are," Damon barked. "I already called the hospital. They're ready for you."

Hospital? Adria's mind raced. Was Campbell sick? Was she pregnant? The thought made her knees buckle.

Damon ran a hand through his hair, his posture slumping. His voice dropped, losing the anger, replaced by a tone Adria remembered from late nights in their apartment. A tone of care.

"I'm coming over now," he said. "Don't be afraid."

Don't be afraid.

The words shattered Adria.

She slid down the wall, her legs giving out. He was yelling because he was worried. He was rushing to her side. He was comforting her.

He loves her. The realization was a final, crushing weight. All the hostility at dinner, the cold stares-it was just frustration. At the end of the day, Campbell was the one he ran to. Campbell was the one he told not to be afraid.

Damon hung up the phone. He kicked the wall, a violent thud that made Adria jump, then turned and strode away toward the exit, his footsteps fading.

Adria waited until silence returned before she dragged herself up. She stumbled into the restroom and locked herself in the handicap stall.

She dropped to her knees in front of the toilet and dry heaved. Nothing came up but acid and bile. Her body was rejecting the emotional trauma, trying to purge a pain that was embedded in her soul.

Her vision began to tunnel. Black spots danced at the edges of her sight. Her hands went numb, the tingling spreading up her arms. A panic attack. A bad one.

She fumbled with her clutch, her fingers clumsy and stiff. She poured three pills into her palm-Xanax. She swallowed them dry, the bitter chalky taste sticking to her tongue.

She curled into a ball on the cold tile floor, hugging her knees. The smell of industrial cleaner filled her nose, reminding her of the hospital room in Boston. Alone. Bleeding. Dying.

"Why didn't you want me?" The child's voice whispered again.

"I did," she sobbed silently, rocking back and forth. "I wanted you so much."

She stayed there for twenty minutes until the drugs began to chemically force her heart rate down. The numbness retreated, replaced by a hollow, cold void. This was the armor. A chemical blanket that smothered the fear, but also the joy, leaving only a vast, empty calm. It was in this state that she could function. It was in this state that Dr. Barr could take over from the shattered woman on the floor.

She stood up. She walked to the sink. The woman in the mirror looked like a corpse. Pale skin, red-rimmed eyes, lips bitten raw.

She turned on the cold water and splashed her face. She took out her lipstick and applied it like war paint. She dusted powder over the tear tracks.

When she looked in the mirror again, Dr. Adria Barr stared back. Cold. Detached. Unbreakable.

Her phone buzzed. Adonis. Car is here.

Coming.

She walked out of the hotel, her head held high. She got into the car and didn't look back.

As her car pulled away, a red Ferrari roared out of the parking lot, tires screeching, heading in the opposite direction. Toward the city. Toward Campbell.

Adria closed her eyes and let the darkness take her.