Page 96 of Twisted Control

Another sob escapes me. I clutch him harder.

His grip tightens in response.

“Alright,” he says more quietly, the anger finally cracking. “I’ve got you.”

I’m still crying into his shirt when I feel that familiar shift—the smugness creeping back in.

“You’ve always been completely obsessed with me,” he murmurs, the cockiness fully back in his voice. “Took you long enough to admit you love me.”

I pull back just enough to look up at him through my tears, eyebrows raised.

“And?”

For a split second, panic flashes across his face. Then he shrugs, trying (and failing) to play it cool.

“I…I think the feeling’s mutual,” he says quietly.

I stare at him, deadpan. “That’s the best you’ve got? I think the feeling’s mutual? Forget it then⁠—”

I start to pull away, but he catches me, holding me firmly in place. His eyes lock on mine.

“Fine,” he exhales, like the words are being dragged out of him. “I love you, Grace Whitmore. To my own goddamn destruction. Happy?”

A tearful, shaky smile breaks across my face.

“Yeah.”

He smiles back and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

“Let’s go now,” I whisper. “I can’t stand another second with Charles.”

For one glorious moment, I think he’s going to say yes. I can practically see it already—us walking straight out of this ridiculous gala together while Dad has some kind of cardiac episode in the background.

But then Drew’s expression shifts. The impulsive heat fades from his face, replaced by something steadier.

“Not tonight,” he says quietly.

My stomach drops. “What?”

“It’ll look suspicious as hell,” he says. “Your dad’s stupid, but not that stupid. He’ll figure out we’ve been messing around.”

I swallow hard. “You asked me to leave with you on Wednesday.”

“Yeah.” He exhales through his nose. “And if you’d actually done it, it would’ve been reckless as fuck.”

I stare at him, still clutching the front of his jacket. “So now what? You want me to keep pretending with Charles?”

“No.” His voice softens. “I want to do this properly.”

He brushes his thumb beneath my eye, wiping away the last damp streak of mascara with surprising gentleness.

“Give me a week,” he says. “I want you safe before this all blows up.”

“Safe?”

“I’ll get you your own credit card. Find us somewhere better to live. Sort out a car in your name.” His tone turns calm and practical. “You can start quietly moving important stuff over to my apartment. Clothes, documents, your passport. Whatever you need.”

He searches my face carefully before continuing.