57. Adrian
Nevaeh’s sobs have slowed.
She’s lying in my arms on her bed while we watch Captain America: Civil War. I stroke her hair gently, calming her until she melts further into me.
All of her pain sits like a building on my chest, heavy and immovable.
I hate her father for what he did, for making her think she could never achieve anything unless it was with his help.
I hate Lincoln even more for recording us and sending that video to Nevaeh’s bosses. The next time I see him, I’m going to kill him. Val, Gabriel, Cameron, Leonard, Chiara, and James will help me, too, so I’m pretty sure we could get away with it. After all the shit he’s pulled, he deserves to get hurt in return.
Nevaeh’s growling stomach tears me out of my murderous thoughts and back into the moment. I rub an infinity symbol onto her back, leaning down to press my lips to her forehead and linger there for a moment.
“Hungry?” I ask, and she nods, the movement sleepy and slow. “I’ll go get us some food,” I assure her, kissing the crown of her head before slipping out of bed.
Nevaeh sits up, too, scanning her little apartment before worry creases the area between her brows.
“Fuck,” she mumbles, so I move in front of her, taking her chin between my fingers.
“What’s wrong?”
“I left my wallet at the office,” she says, attempting to move out of bed, too, but I grab her shoulders and push her backward.
“I’ll go get it. You stay here. I’ll be right back.” She opens her mouth to protest, but I kiss her so thoroughly, by the time I lean back, she’s smiling a little.
“Okay,” is all she replies.
“I love you endlessly, mon paradis,” I say, her chin still between my fingers.
“I love you endlessly, mein Mond.”
I slip out of her apartment after another long kiss, walking toward her office. Part of me wants to tell all of them to burn in hell, that they lost one of the best fucking journalists on the planet, but I know Nevaeh wouldn’t want me to do that, so I keep my mouth shut.
A woman named Genevieve shows me to Nevaeh’s desk where I grab her wallet, scowling at everyone who passes me.
This must be what it feels like to be Leonard, Chiara, Chloe, and Julián.
Right now, I get their inclination to frown at everyone because that’s exactly how I feel.
“Adrian?”
That voice.
The softness of how she addresses me.
The way she pronounces my name like no one else in my life.
“Adrian,” she repeats, but this time, it isn’t a question.
It’s a plea.
I turn around to find her standing behind me, uncertainty painted all over her aged features. She’s wearing a pink dress, her favorite color from what I remember. Her once blonde hair is now starting to gray, and her eyes, they’re exactly like Val’s and mine.
“Mom?”