Page 57 of Arrow

I tried desperately to fight the hot tears that flooded my eyes, but they spilled down my cheeks anyway.

Turning to the window, I balled my hands in my lap, nails digging half-moons into my thighs—anything to distract from the pain settling in my soul.

Not for my father. Not for my life.

For Frank.

That would be the last time I saw him; I knew it. And the thought burrowed deep in my stomach, until I thought I might vomit. I rolled down the window, letting the night air bite at my skin.

The driver, Ivan—one of those men born and bred never to smile—took us over the bridge without a look back. Manhattan behind us, New York City ahead, and me between the two.

When I tried to shift closer to the door, putting even more distance between us, Arrow’s hand landed on my knee, fingers spread possessively across the fabric of my dress.

“Don’t.”

I froze, my body betraying me with a small shiver. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t retreat into your head where I can’t follow.”

Laughing felt like the only sane response to the insanity of it all.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Is that what you really think I’m doing? Retreating?”

“You’re calculating exits, weighing options. Wondering if you could survive jumping from a moving vehicle.”

I hated that he could read me so easily. That he knew the exact trajectory of my thoughts. “I’m not that desperate.”

“Not desperate.” He paused, a ghost of an amused smile playing at his lips. “Stubborn.”

If Arrow wanted a show, he’d have to throttle it out of me. Maybe that was his plan all along—make me drive myself mad, then cut the leash with the smallest possible motion. Maybe he’d turn on me at a red light and snap my spine for fun.

But I doubted it. He was the type who enjoyed a slow kill.

He’d make it last.

The car slowed, turning off the main road onto a tree-lined drive.

We passed through wrought-iron gates that opened silently at our approach, then closed behind us with a finality that made my stomach clench.

Ahead stood a prefab glass fortress, isolated at the end of a private drive.

The monster’s house looked like a Bond villain’s wet dream, with glass walls and slate, perched above the Hudson. Even the landscaping screamed money and damage control. There were cameras at the eaves, and a wolfhound paced the perimeter, its fur slicked to silver by the rain.

Arrow exited first, then held the door open for me. When I hesitated, his patience visibly thinned.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Harlowe.” His voice was low enough that only I could hear. “But either way, you’re going inside.”

I stepped out of the car, my legs unsteady beneath me. The night air was cold against my tear-stained cheeks.

As I stood there, taking in my new reality, Arrow’s hand pressed at the small of my back, guiding me toward the entrance.

The entryway was bare, a single black spiral staircase winding to the upper floor, light pooling on each step. Beside the door, he stripped off his suit jacket, tossed it to the banister, and shook rain from his hair like a dog.

It was somehow both minimalist and excessive, like Arrow himself. The foyer opened to towering ceilings, glass walls framing the Hudson River beyond. No family photos, no personal touches. Only sleek furniture and abstract art that probably cost more than most people’s homes.

Everything was monochromatic with occasional splashes of crimson that seemed too deliberate to be anything but a message.

I shivered, suddenly aware of how exposed I felt in this crystalline fortress.