Million Dollar Devil

8.

I wipe the tears from my face, catching my reflection in the rearview mirror. Smudged mascara, blotchy cheeks, a hollow look in my eyes. I grimace and scrub at my face with the sleeve of my shirt, trying to erase the evidence but all I end up doing is making it worse.

I fumble for my phone, hands trembling, and start typing my address into Uber.

"$100."

The number blinks up at me, cold and cruel.

"Fuck!" I slam my palm into the steering wheel, the crack of it ricocheting around the empty parking structure.

A hundred dollars. On top of rent. On top of the tow truck I'll need. On top of a car repair bill I can't even fathom.

I bury my face in my hands, willing myself not to spiral, not to lose it completely.
I can sleep at the office.
I can wake up at four and catch a bus.
Maybe Dom can drive me if I offer to pay for gas.

None of it feels like a real solution.

Knock knock.

I jump.

Peeking up through my blurry vision, I see him and freeze.

Mr. Hayes standing at my window, expression carved from stone, brows drawn low in a way that somehow makes him look even more striking under the harsh, flickering garage lights. He stares at me without flinching, as if assessing damage he isn't quite sure how to fix.

Feeling humiliated, I quickly wipe at my face again, forcing the corners of my mouth into something that resembles a smile. I open the door, and the metal creaks too loudly in the dead air.

"Hi, I'm sorry," I stammer, voice thick with leftover emotion. "My car won't start."

The words sound stupid the second they leave my mouth. I have no idea what I'm apologizing for. Existing, maybe. Being a mess in his perfect world.

"How long have you been sitting here?" he asks.

"I—what?"

"How long."

I hesitate. "I don't know. A few minutes?"

His nostrils flare slightly. He glances around the empty garage, then back at me.

"You didn't call anyone."

It's not a question.

"I was about to," I say defensively. "I was just—"

"No," he says calmly. "You weren't."

I open my mouth to argue, then stop. Because he's right.

"I was going to take an Uber," I mutter.

His expression darkens. "You're not getting into a stranger's car this late."

"I'll be fine," I insist.

His gaze sweeps over me slowly. Puffy eyes, the messy hair, the trembling hands. He exhales, slow and measured, closing his eyes briefly, as if collecting himself. Then, without a word, he turns and walks away.

I blink, confused and frozen in place.

He stops when he realizes I haven't moved and glances over his shoulder with a sigh.

"I'm taking you home, Lillian," he says, voice low but absolute. It isn't a suggestion. It isn't even a command. It's a simple fact.

My throat tightens. I open my mouth to protest, but the look he shoots me kills the words on my tongue. I swallow hard, grab my bag, and climb out of the car. I want to argue, to insist I can handle this. But the look in his eyes leaves no room for debate.