13. DNA Technology
DNA TECHNOLOGY
*Samantha*
T hirty-one minutes after accepting a fake marriage proposal, I sat in the back of the Mercedes SUV staring holes through the seat in front of me.
The privacy window was down and Tara drove with both hands on the wheel, posture immaculate.
I sat directly behind her and the middle seat between me and Andreas was left vacant.
Andreas, whose own back was pressed flat to the leather, kept his gaze fixed out the window as the city blurred past in electric streaks.
He hadn’t said a word since we’d left the restaurant.
He also hadn’t touched me, not even an accidental graze.
I kept waiting for some kind of follow-up. A postmortem of the proposal. A joke. Instead, the only reminder of the whole spectacle was the diamond on my finger, a sparkling star that winked whenever I turned my hand. I still wasn’t convinced it wasn’t a prop, the weight of it felt obscene.
The proposal, the champagne, the public make out so hot it still echoed beneath my skin, all of it played on a loop during brittle quiet of the car ride.
For reasons I couldn’t name, I felt like crying.
It wasn’t sadness, more like sheer overwhelm , the way one might cry after narrowly avoiding being hit by a bus.
Tara checked on me in the mirror, watching me with open curiosity. I attempted a smile, but it died halfway up my cheeks.
She caught it anyway. Her own smile flashed, then vanished as quickly as it came.
Andreas was the first to speak, his voice smooth and impassive. “Do you want the movers to come tomorrow, or Sunday?”
I flinched slightly at the sudden sound. “Um, tomorrow’s fine,” I said, and forced myself to unclench my jaw. “I should be finished packing before noon.”
“Do you need boxes?” His eyes were still pointed out the window.
I shook my head even though he wasn’t looking at me. “No. I have stackable bins for moving. I’ve done it so many times that I just keep them in my closet. It’ll be four bins and a suitcase. The furniture stays.”
At this, Andreas faced me wearing a confused-looking frown. He studied me for a long moment, like he had several follow-up questions. But eventually, the tiny crease that had formed above his nose smoothed, and he redirected his gaze out the window again. “I will tell them to come at noon, then.”
That was it. No further conversation. Tara, perhaps sensing the silence had crystallized, turned on a playlist that apparently consisted of only cello covers of pop songs. “Wrecking Ball” had never sounded so apt.
The car ate the blocks between Midtown and the far side of the park.
I counted every stoplight, every jogger, every office worker fumbling with their phone late on a Friday night.
I wondered what they’d think if they looked through the tinted glass and saw me, diamond ring on my left hand, hair still flawless, makeup less so, and dead-eyed with the particular numbness that follows a massive adrenaline spike.
Maybe they’d think I was some trophy wife on the way home from a charity ball. Or maybe they’d see what was really going on, a girl who’d just sold her soul for a shot at poetic justice, and now had to pretend like the consequences weren’t already gnawing at her.
When we pulled up to my building, Tara put the car in park and looked over her shoulder. “Do you want me to wait?”
I’d already started to reach for the door, but Andreas caught my wrist before I could open it. The contact startled me, not because it was rough, but because it was so careful.
“I will walk Samantha up to her apartment.” His words sounded coldly polite. “Please circle the block until I return.”
Tara gave a little salute. “Sure thing, boss.”
Andreas exited first, walked around the back of the car, and opened my door for me.
He offered his hand. I took it and our fingers fit together.
His was a little clammy, and mine was probably freezing.
I let him lead me to the door and studied his posture as we walked.
He appeared entirely at ease, his movements unhurried.
At the front entrance, I typed in the security code. He didn’t let go of my hand as the door buzzed open and we crossed the threshold.
Inside, the stairwell was dim and quiet, the scent of old radiators and paint chips mixing with the faintest whiff of the bakery down the block. I paused, at a loss for what to do next.
Andreas finally released my hand, stuffing both of his into his coat pockets. He looked up the stairs, seeming to contemplate each one individually, like the act of walking me up to my apartment was perhaps the most complicated situation he’d ever encountered.
I shifted my weight, fished through my bag for keys I didn’t quite need yet, gave up searching for them, and tried to think of something casual to say. “You know, it’s four flights. You really don’t have to walk me all the way up.”
“I do not mind.”
“It’s not dangerous,” I pressed, feigning exasperation I didn’t feel. “I don’t need an escort. Honestly, it’s fine. I’ll just go up from here.”
I wanted him to leave. Not because I didn’t want him around, but because the moment he left, I could finally collapse and let the tears—tears I didn’t understand and didn’t want to explain—have their way with me.
Diya should be at work unless something in her schedule had changed last minute.
Kendra was at her boyfriend’s. And Nakita had left this afternoon for her parents’ place outside of Boston. I’d have the whole apartment to myself.
But Andreas didn’t leave. He looked at the stairs, then at his shoes, then back at me. “I need to wait here for fifteen minutes.”
That threw me. “Why?”
“It would be strange”—his gaze locked on a spot above my head—“for me to sleep alone tonight after that proposal.”
It took a few seconds for the logic to sink in.
Then it hit all at once. He was performing for an audience we knew existed, and was watching, and was likely outside the building.
One I’d already forgotten about in my post-kiss haze.
If anyone had followed us to my building—likely one of Tobias’s underlings—they’d expect Andreas to spend the night.
I felt a laugh rise in my chest, but it came out bitter. “Right. Of course.”
And then, because my brain always insisted on poking holes in plans, I asked, “What if they spot you leaving after fifteen minutes? Won’t that look suspicious?”
He cleared his throat, but didn’t answer. For once, the strategic genius had no ready move. I could almost see the gears grinding behind his stoic mask.
I took a step up, then stopped and turned, arms folded. “Should you just spend the night, then?”
His eyes snapped to mine. If I hadn’t been staring, I might have missed the way they widened, just for a second, with what looked like astonishment.
“Do you want me to spend the night?” The question hung between us, utterly flat and uninflected.
I opened my mouth, then closed it. Thoughts tumbled in. The taste of his mouth, the smell of rosemary, the way his hand had fit against the small of my back and made me feel like my bones were electric. I remembered, too, the rules. No physical contact when alone. No room for the real thing.
I shrugged, hoping it looked cool and unbothered. “If there’s a chance you’ll be spotted leaving and it messes up our plan, then yes. I’ll text Diya and see if she’s coming home tonight. If not, you can have my bed, I’ll take hers. Otherwise, you can sleep on the couch.”
Andreas’s eyebrows pulled together in not quite a frown. “Is that what you want?”
I should have said , It doesn’t matter what I want. The plan is all that matters . But the thought of him in my apartment, of waking up and seeing him there, even as an act, sent a pulse of longing through me that was so strong I wanted to kick myself.
“It’s fine,” I said tiredly, and started up the stairs. “Whatever makes sense.” I paused, thumb hovering over my phone, and shot Diya a text.
Sam: Home early. You have an overnight shift, right? Need to know for ... reasons.
While waiting for her reply, I continued climbing stairs. I’d ascended two flights before I noticed I was climbing them alone. I stopped, turned, and looked down. Andreas was a full flight below me, face angled up, standing motionless on the landing.
He wasn’t winded. In fact, he looked like a malfunctioning Roomba, immobilized by indecision, calculating alternate routes. His face was marble, unreadable except for the barest tightness in the line of his jaw.
“You okay?” I asked, pitching my voice as low as I could, wanting to irritate my neighbors as little as possible.
His gaze shifted to mine and he nodded once. Then he started up the stairs, climbing in a steady, silent cadence until he reached my level.
We walked the rest of the way together, no more than a step apart, neither of us speaking.
My thoughts scurried in a dozen directions.
Why had he stopped? Did I do something wrong?
Was he regretting the whole public display at the restaurant?
Had I bitten him too hard during the kiss?
Did he realize, suddenly, that he would have to sleep on my sad, lumpy mattress and was recalculating the entire trajectory of his life up to this moment?
I checked my phone at the landing. Diya hadn’t replied to my earlier text, so I fired off another.
Sam: Hey, if you won’t be home tonight, is it cool if Andreas stays over? I’ll sleep in your bed, he’ll sleep in mine. LMK if you’re coming home tonight.
I sent it, then fumbled for my keys. Andreas reached out—quick, efficient—and took my clutch before I could drop it. Then he held it open so I could use both my hands to find my keys. For some reason, this tiny, proactive gesture sent a shock wave of embarrassment down my spine.
He was so ... thoughtful.