That I'm tired of being treated like a patient instead of a person.
"But he loves you," she protests. "He's been so patient, so understanding about... everything."
"That's the problem." I take a sip of the wine I don't want. "I don't need patient. I don't need understanding. I need..."
Pain. Control. Someone who sees the darkness in me and doesn't try to fix it.
"What do you need?" Emilia asks, genuinely curious.
"I don't know," I lied. "That's what I have to figure out."
We talked for another hour. She tells me about Preston, her investment banker boyfriend who's planning to propose at Christmas.
She talks about law school, about her father's latest case, about the normal life she's building.
The life everyone expected me to build, too.
"I should go," she finally says, checking her phone. "But are you sure you're okay? You seem... different."
"I'm fine. I just need a night to myself. To process."
She hugs me, enveloping me in her expensive perfume. "Call me if you need anything. And Sel? Maybe don't make any big decisions right now. You're emotional, and?—"
"I won't," I lied again.
She leaves at 9:47 p.m.
By 10:15, I'm dressed and out the door.
I hate admitting this, but the outfit took me an hour to decide on.
Not too desperate, not too conservative.
A simple black dress that hugs every curve, short enough to be provocative but not cheap.
Heels that make my legs look endless.
Red lipstick like a wound across my mouth.
I look like someone else.
Someone dangerous.
Someone who belongs in the dark.
The drive to Purgatory takes me about thirty minutes.
It's in the warehouse district, where the city pretends respectability doesn't matter after midnight.
The building looks abandoned from the outside—no sign, no indication of what lies within.
Just a door with a man in a suit standing beside it.
I pull out the card and hand it to him with fingers that don't shake.
He looks at it, then at me.
His eyes travel down my body and back up, assessing. "You sure you're in the right place, princess?"
