Page 115 of Legacy
A trembling exhale.
A moment of sanity.
He stills.
“In my office,” he says, voice rough, low. “Wait here.”
The heat of his hand, his skin, his scent—gone.
I slip off the counter before I can stop myself, drawn after him like I don’t have a choice.
His office smells like him; like power.
He moves to the drawer, his head down, searching.
And that’s when I see it.
My breath catches.
On the wall behind his desk is a board that wasn't there before.
Lined with photos.
Of me.
Dozens of them. Different places. Different times.
Candid shots. Me walking to class. Leaving the library. Laughing with friends. Stepping into my apartment building.
Five years of my life, frozen behind glassy prints, tacked in neat little rows like I’m some puzzle he’s been piecing together.
Like I’m some prize he’s been hunting.
The warmth from before dies.
Replaced by cold.
My heart hammers so loud I almost don’t hear him when he looks up.
“Adriana—”
But I’m already backing away, my eyes locked on that wall of proof.
Proof that I wasneverfree.
“I was going to talk to you about this,” he says, his hands are up like he’s trying to quell me.
“I wanted to show you everything, tell you about it all, then ask if we could start over at the loft, but then you kissed me.”
My eyes leave the photo board as reality snaps back into view. “The loft?” I exhale confused.
He nods.
“The loft. I was going to explain all this and then ask if you would let me take you back there. Not to sleep with you. Not because of the contract. Just… us. A redo. I want to see if we can find even a piece of what we had that week.”
His words knock the breath out of me.
The loft.
