“Tuesday.”
It was Thursday.
For a moment, nothing in the room moved except rain sliding down the windows.
Then Adrian pushed his phone toward the center of the table.
“I’m not going to decide what happens next for you,” he said.
“But you have options.
Medical care.
A lawyer.
Police.
Security.
Somewhere safe to stay.
Whatever you choose, you choose it.”
That stopped me.
Daniel had spent years making every decision sound like his permission.
What I wore.
Who I saw.
How much of my salary remained in my own account.
Whether I was allowed to be angry after he hurt me.
Adrian was offering power and refusing to use it on me.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked.
His gaze shifted toward the abandoned contract at the head of the table.
“Because thirteen minutes late doesn’t matter.
This does.”
I almost laughed.
Instead, a sob escaped me.
I covered my mouth immediately, embarrassed.
“Don’t apologize,” Adrian said.
Those two words nearly undid me.
I had apologized to Daniel for everything.
For speaking too loudly.
For speaking too quietly.
For working late.
For coming home early.
For making him jealous.
For making him angry.
For having bruises he had caused.
I had apologized so often that the words had become a reflex.
Adrian picked up the security report.
“There’s something else.”
My fear returned instantly.
He turned several pages toward me.
The reports documented the black SUV outside my apartment, near the office garage, and once near a grocery store I used on Sundays.
There were timestamps.
Photographs.
License-plate records.
Then he showed me a still image from the Romano Holdings parking garage.
A man in a dark jacket stood near the employee entrance.
His face was partly turned away.
I recognized the jacket.
Daniel had worn it the previous winter.
“He came here?”
“Twice,” Adrian said.
“Security stopped him before he reached the elevators.
He claimed he was bringing you something.”
I hadn’t known.
Daniel had asked unusually detailed questions about the office that week.
