But when he saw that I wasn't angry at all, the same restlessness he'd felt back in the hospital room crept back into his chest, inexplicably heavy.
"Seraphina," he said coldly, "you've been glued to your phone ever since you got in the car."
His voice carried a note of jealousy, low and controlled, the way a man accustomed to absolute authority sounds when something slips beyond his reach.
"Chatting with your cousin? Or someone else I don't know?"
I had just finished booking my plane ticket and locked my phone screen.
"Just reading the news," I replied calmly.
But rather than easing his mood, my answer only deepened the frown between his brows. The silver lighter appeared in his hand, turning end over end between his fingers, the soft click of metal filling the silence of the armored sedan.
Catching me off guard, he snatched the phone from my hand.
"What's your password?" he demanded. The lighter stopped moving.
"My birthday," I said.
Nine years of marriage. Nine years of a blood-bound union.
A six-digit password that simple, and yet, he still failed to unlock my phone before it locked itself from too many incorrect attempts.