For three days, Adora avoided the market.
She told herself it was exhaustion, but the truth was simpler she didn't want to see him.
Not Marco. Not Luciana. Not the sleek car that reminded her of everything she wasn't.
She spent the mornings wandering the city instead Harlem's brownstones, the crowded subway platforms, the small cafés where no one knew her name. She liked the noise, the way the world didn't care who she was.
But even in the noise, his voice followed her.
By the fourth night, she returned to her apartment with sore feet and a restless mind. She was halfway through reheating leftover jollof rice when someone knocked on her door.
She froze. No one visited her this late.
"Who is it?" she called.
"Someone who hates being ignored."
Her stomach dropped.
That voice smooth, patient, threaded with power.
When she opened the door, Marco DeLuca stood there, leaning casually against the frame, his dark coat damp from the rain.
"Are you following me now?" she asked, crossing her arms.
He stepped inside without waiting for permission. "You disappeared."
"I work," she said flatly. "Unlike some people."
He smiled slightly. "You think I don't work?"
"Whatever you do," she said, "doesn't look like work to me. It looks like control."
He stopped, studying her. The rain dripping from his hair caught the dim kitchen light, and for a moment, he looked less like a crime lord and more like a man who'd forgotten how to be vulnerable.
"Adora," he said quietly, "you think control is power. It's not. It's armor."
She didn't answer.
He took a step closer, his voice softening. "I came to apologize. I shouldn't have used Luciana to test you."
"Test me?" she echoed, anger flashing in her eyes. "You don't test people you care about."
He nodded once. "You're right."
The honesty disarmed her. She looked away, suddenly aware of how close he was how the warmth of his body brushed the chill from the room.
"Why me, Marco?" she asked finally. "There are women like her. Beautiful. Rich. You could have anyone."
He paused, his expression unreadable. Then he said,
"Because you don't want anything from me."
Her breath caught. "You're wrong."
"Am I?" he asked softly.
"Yes," she whispered. "I want peace. And you ruin it."
For a moment, neither spoke. Only the sound of rain against the window filled the silence.
Then he smiled faintly not cruelly this time, but like someone who had found something rare.
"I can live with that."
He turned toward the door, leaving behind the faint scent of cologne and trouble.
When he was gone, Adora sank onto the couch, her pulse racing.
She had no idea if she wanted him to stay away or come back.