Becca
The second the dinner ends, I know Stephen isn’t letting this go.
He’s the type of man who needs the last word.
The last win.
The last punch.
Which means when I step out onto the driveway waiting for my ride, I’m not surprised when the front door opens behind me.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Stephen.
“Of course,” I mutter under my breath.
His voice comes from behind me.
“Leaving already?”
I don’t turn around immediately. I take a breath, look up at the dark sky, then finally face him.
He’s standing on the stone steps with his hands in his pockets.
That same arrogant posture he’s had since college.
Some people evolve.
Stephen just upgrades the suit.
“What do you want?” I ask.
He walks down the steps toward me.
The porch light hits his face, sharpening the angles.
