The SUV door clicked shut behind them, sealing out the world and all its noise.
Adam settled into the leather seat with Sofia still in his arms. She wasn't protesting anymore—not because she had sobered up completely, but because the look on his face had changed.
It wasn't cold. It wasn't unreadable. It was worried.
The city lights blurred outside as the driver pulled into motion. Fast. Purposeful.
Sofia shifted, her cheek resting against Adam's chest. "You didn't have to carry me," she mumbled.
"You didn't have to dance with Tristan," he replied without missing a beat.
She smiled faintly. "You're jealous."
He didn't answer. She just brushed a lock of hair away from her face with a tenderness that startled them both.
Sofia looked up at him, eyes glassy with wine and something more vulnerable beneath it. "Are we going to the penthouse?"
His gaze lingered on her before he shook his head. "No. We're going home. The estate. You'll be safer there."
