"Then let's try a different question." He pulled out a pack of wet wipes and held them out to me. "Your hands are covered in blood. You didn't even notice?"
I looked down. My palms were a mess. The crescent wounds my nails had dug were already dried over.
I'd been clenching my fists the entire time, hard enough to break skin.
"Clean up first." He pressed the wipes into my hand and started the car. "Here's the real question: where are you going?"
I said nothing.
He glanced at me, searching my eyes as if trying to confirm something, then pulled away from the curb.
"I happen to have a spare house."
Less than fifteen minutes later, Benedict dropped me off in front of a detached villa.
Miles was already waiting at the door. He and Miles went inside for about ten minutes, then came back out, texted me the entry code, said "Make yourself at home," and left.
I stood at the front door in a daze, clothes torn and filthy, feet still in those impossibly elegant heels.
From the terror of facing my ex, the desperate scramble to escape, to crossing paths with Benedict Fox.
My fate, it seemed, was being rewritten.