About 30 minutes later, as I tried to make sense of what was happening, his car approached and slowed down briefly. I saw him through the window, his eyes hard, calculating.
He got me into the back of his car and then, as if I was just another obstacle on the road, he shielded the woman beside him—Lacey Mark, his assistant—and muttered, "Bad luck. Don't look." And then he sped off.
That same night, back at the estate, I was in our room, folding clothes. I was trying to stay composed, trying not to think about the dull ache in my heart. As I reached for a pair of jeans, my fingers brushed against a delicate piece of fabric—a lace bra, shoved carelessly into the corner of the closet. It wasn’t mine. My chest tightened, but I just closed the closet door, swallowed the bitterness, and dialed a number.
"Mr. Romano, it's Alissa Gebbert. I've made up my mind. I can leave here next week and start at your firm."
"That’s fantastic news, Mrs. Gebbert! We’re thrilled to have you on board," he said cheerfully.