Thirty-eight hours left.
I knew the number the way I knew the exact shape of Marcus’s hands on my hips. I had counted it down in the shower, at breakfast, during the endless stretch of afternoon when my father worked in his study and Marcus stood in the hallway like a shadow that had learned how to breathe.
He didn’t look at me when I passed him. He didn’t speak. But every time our eyes met for even a second, the memory of the night before slammed back into my body—the cold metal of the car hood under my cheek, the way he had f****d me until I came with his name broken in my throat, the thick heat of him still leaking down my thighs when he drove me home.
By evening the house had gone quiet. My father was on a late call. The staff had left. I found Marcus in the garage checking the blac
