The rain had lessened to a steady, freezing drizzle by the time the dark SUV pulled up to the curb of the building.
It had taken Aryan forty-five minutes to turn the car around—forty-five minutes of staring out into the dark highway, his hands clenched around his knees, a strange, suffocating knot tightening in his chest. He told himself he was only going back because leaving her on a deserted road would look terrible if the press found out. He told himself it was about optics, not guilt.
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