I didn't sleep.
I spent the night packing and unpacking, pacing my small apartment, and staring at the phone. Every time I looked at the clock, another hour had slipped away. I tried to tell myself that maybe he was joking. Maybe it was just a cruel prank.
But when a black Rolls Royce pulled up to my curb at exactly 8:00 AM, the reality hit me like a bucket of ice water.
The driver was a stoic man named Arthur who didn't speak a word. He loaded my single suitcase into the trunk and opened the back door for me. Adrian was inside.
He was on his phone, talking rapidly in what sounded like Italian. He was wearing a navy suit today, looking sharp and impossibly fresh, while I felt like a zombie.
I slid into the seat opposite him, keeping as much distance as possible.
"Hang up," he said in
