The ride back to Sinclair Tower in the Aston Martin was suffocatingly silent.
Aria sat as close to the passenger door as physically possible, hugging her arms tightly around herself. She was completely soaked from the torrential highway downpour, her bare feet tucked under her on the leather seat. The sports car's AC blasted against her wet skin and ruined Alexander McQueen red pantsuit, but she didn't complain.
She stared out the tinted window, watching the blurring buildings and trees, refusing to look at the man behind the wheel.
Damien drove with white-knuckled tension. His jaw was locked tight enough to crack his own teeth, his wet dress shirt clinging to the Kevlar vest still strapped across his chest.
"I want to see my father," Aria finally said, her voice flat. "Reroute to the safe house."
Damien kept his golden eyes glued to the road.
