4. Chapter Four #2
“You don’t know what happened.” Her voice shakes with anger. “He could be looking for me. He could be injured.”
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel.
My knuckles turn white beneath the dashboard lights.
The least she could do is acknowledge that she’s alive. That I got her away from armed men who were shooting into a crowded ballroom.
Instead, she’s furious that I didn’t stop to search for her twig of a boyfriend.
Who thinks like that?
“I swear to God, if something happened to him—”
“What are you going to do?”
My self-control snaps.
I glance toward her.
She’s glaring at me as though I’m one of the men who opened fire.
“Would you prefer that I turn around?” I demand. “Should I drop you off so you can play hero and rescue your prince?”
“You’re an asshole.”
“I know.”
I nod, returning my attention to the road.
“What I don’t understand is why you’re being so unbelievably reckless.”
Her eyes flash. “Excuse me?”
“We were just ambushed, Simone. Bullets were flying through the ballroom. People were screaming and trampling one another.”
My voice rises despite every attempt to control it.
“You could have been hit. You could have been killed.”
Her eyes widen.
I don’t stop.
I can’t.
“And all I’ve heard since we got into this car is Adrien. A man you’ve known for one evening. A man I have absolutely no obligation to protect.”
“You don’t—”
“No. You listen to me.”
My heart is still pounding too hard from searching that room and not finding her where she was supposed to be.
“You haven’t asked about your brother. You haven’t asked about your father, who is still inside a building where armed men are shooting at guests.”
Her lips part.
“I work for Francis,” I continue. “Not you. I should be in there protecting him. But your brother told me to get you out, and that’s what I did.”
She looks away.
“But instead of being relieved that you’re alive, you won’t stop talking about a man you barely know.”
“Luca—”
“You think I should feel guilty because I didn’t drag him out too?”
My voice turns rough.
“I had one job.”
The words hang between us.
“You. That was it.”
She goes still.
“I don’t care how charming he looked across the ballroom. I don’t care how much you think you like him. He wasn’t my responsibility.”
My grip tightens around the steering wheel.
“You were.”
She doesn’t say anything.
Doesn’t move.
But I feel her stare.
It burns through my skin and settles into my bones.
Then she turns toward the window.
The car falls silent.
Our breathing fogs the glass, and everything we haven’t said presses in around us.
Guilt arrives slowly.
A sharp, persistent pressure beneath my ribs.
I shouldn’t have spoken to her that way.
She’s a grown woman, not a child I’m supposed to scold. She was frightened. Probably still is.
But the words are already out.
I can’t take them back.
When I glance at her again, she’s staring through the window and blinking rapidly. Her throat moves as though she’s swallowing something too large to contain.
I can’t punch myself without looking insane.
So I keep my eyes on the road and spend the rest of the drive hating myself in silence.
The car rolls into the garage at the Rochefort estate.
Simone opens the door before I’ve fully stopped the engine.
She climbs out, slams it behind her, and storms toward the house.
My hand closes around my door handle.
I should follow her.
She’s barefoot.
She’s shaken.
And we don’t know whether tonight’s attack is over.
But I hesitate.
Then I watch her disappear through the front door.
Great.
Now I feel like complete shit.
My phone vibrates inside my pocket.
I sit straighter when Brandon’s name appears on the screen.
“You good?” I ask.
His voice is strained and lower than usual. “Yeah. Shaken, but I’ll survive. How’s Simone?”
We had a fight.
I called her reckless.
I may have acted like an unforgivable asshole.
“She’s fine. I just dropped her off.”
“Good.” He exhales. “That’s one less thing to worry about.”
A pause follows.
“Dad was hit.”
Everything inside me stills.
“Right shoulder,” Bran continues. “The exit wound was bad. He’s at St. Joseph’s. They took him into surgery five minutes ago.”
“Fuck.”
I close my eyes.
“He’ll make it,” Bran says with enough conviction that I almost believe him. “He’s stronger than this. But it was close.”
I open my eyes again. “Anyone else?”
“Three guests suffered minor injuries. Everyone else either got out or remained hidden until the tactical team cleared the ballroom.”
“The shooters?”
“Gone.”
My hands tighten into fists.
Francis was the only person seriously wounded.
In his own ballroom.
At his own event.
The shooters positioned themselves around the room, caused maximum panic, fired several rounds—and somehow Francis took the only critical hit.
That isn’t coincidence.
The attack wasn’t random.
It was an assassination attempt.
I force out the next question, though it tastes like acid.
“And Adrien?”
“He’s fine. Shaken, but untouched. I saw him right after you left. He was looking for Simone.”
Bran’s voice softens.
“She’ll probably want to know that.”
“Yeah.”
I stare at the front door she disappeared behind.
“Thanks. I’ll be at the hospital soon.”
We hang up.
For several seconds, I remain behind the wheel, staring at the house.
I got Simone out.
I completed the job Bran gave me.
But Francis is in surgery.
The attackers escaped.
And somewhere between the ballroom and this garage, I made the woman I rescued look at me as though I was another threat she needed to survive.