Says she kept copies.

Adrian flipped the phone facedown and set his hand over mine. His palm was hot, his grip firm enough to feel like a cuff. “Tonight,” he said, dropping his voice, “I’d prefer you let me lead.”

I looked at his hand, then at his face. Somewhere near the bar, a camera shutter clicked — faint, masked by the clink of silverware, but I caught it. I turned my head just slightly.

A woman in a navy trench coat was already pivoting toward the exit.

Adrian didn’t seem to notice. His thumb rubbed the back of my hand. “A woman like you needs structure. You’ve built an identity around being independent, guarded.

It’s a defense mechanism.”