I POWER ON MY phone the next morning, my unfamiliar surroundings and last night's events making me want to feel grounded, stabilized. So I open the Bible app on my phone to read a few verses and pray. Heavenly Father, help me. I may not be able to see the end of the path You are leading me down but I know that You do. You are watching over me, Lord, so help me to have faith. Help me to do Your will no matter where I am. I pray this in Jesus' precious name, Amen.

Just as I am clicking out of the app, about to get ready for the day and maybe take a shower, a message pings my phone. Can we talk? —Lucas. I really ought to have deleted his number earlier.

I breathe deeply, trying to figure out how to respond. Why do you still have this number? And, I hadn't realized there was anything to talk about. —Christina.

Instead of texting back, he calls me. I don't want to be petty, but... he's FBI now. Maybe he can help me with the predicament I have found myself in?

"Good morning," he says when I pick up. "Sleep well?"

Really? He's going to play this game?

"What do you want?" I answer him brusquely.

He sighs. "Don't be like that, Christina."

I fight the urge to roll my eyes at the condescending line. Instead, I suck in another deep breath, drumming my the fingers of my free hand on my thigh. "Please tell me why you called, Lucas."

"You used to call me Luke," he recalls, not answering me. The memory makes me want to cringe as I scoot closer to the edge of the bed, not quite ready to get out from beneath the warm covers yet.

"I also used to think you were a loyal, faithful boyfriend," I say through the gritted teeth of my fake smile. "People can change."

The light filtering through the window is sad and grey like it is close to raining again. Last night, I tried desperately to fall asleep to the sounds of thunder and watched the flashes of lightning through the sheer curtains. Tossing and turning before finally shoving a pillow over my head, I am surprised I didn't suffocate in my slumber.

"Look, don't be a hypocrite, Tina." His voice turns whiny and critical, and I almost drop my phone in shock. Me, hypocritical?

I pick up a hairbrush and jerked it savagely through my tangled hair. Ouch.

"How am I being a hypocrite?" I struggle to keep my voice level. "And who gave you permission to use that nickname?"

He ignores both of my questions. "That's beside the point. Look, I don't know how you got involved with these... these criminals, but they're no good, Christina! That guy is a literal drug dealer!"

Pacing the room, I turn my conversation onto speakerphone. Then I pick up my clutch and rifle through it, searching for a tube of lipstick or concealer or anything that will be useful and make me look a little less like an extra in The Walking Dead.

"And yet he somehow managed to treat me better on one date than you ever have in our relationship, Lucas. Goodbye." It's more spiteful than I intend to be. I go to press the END CALL button, but I miss and end up knocking my phone off the table. "Crap."

He keeps talking as I bend down to scoop it up. "Christina. Are you still there?"

I bite back the word 'unfortunately' that springs to my lips and say simply, "Yes, I am."

"I know I've offended you. But frankly, I don't think you can call yourself a Christian, and be so...so rude and cold to me at the same time. Don't you think God requires you to forgive me?" That smarmy voice really does worm its way into my heart, penetrates into my thoughts, without my permission.

So this time I hang up. For real. And then I start thinking of ways to keep from tearing my hair out, or driving back to New York and tearing his jugular out. Because that would only prove him right: I didn't forgive him, not really. I am not behaving in the way that God asks of me. But did he when he cheated on me? When he broke my heart and shattered my trust?

I dig my teeth into my lower lip, still taking long strides through the room but feeling more caged, more trapped. I need to get out of here. My thoughts begin to spiral down a dark cloud, rain metaphorically and literally pouring down. What am I doing in a drug dealer's house, wearing his clothes, eating his food--well not quite--and fraternizing with his family? What am I doing at all?

I fling open one of the closet doors before stepping back in shock. It's full of my clothes. I can hear my heartbeat roaring in my ears, still riled by the phone call and the accusations thrown at me. I blink twice, staring into the wardrobe: black Rag and Bone skinny jeans, white silk blouses, little black dresses. It's what I usually wear, but... classier. I finger one of the outfits and look at the tag: a size 4, also what I usually wear.

If I was the kind of person to swear, now would be the time to do it.

I STORM DOWN THE stairs, half-shaking with indignation and half-numb with shock. One of the garments—a black, knee-length leather dress—is still clutched in my trembling hand.

When my eyes alight on Antonio, I have to use every ounce of willpower I possess not to let my face warp into that of a madwoman. Because I am mad at him, for being way more than a Tinder date—for bringing me to his house, for making me have to lie to my mother, for turning my life into a mess in less than twenty-four hours.

"Good morning, Christina." He's leaning against a black marble counter with leather barstools lined up beside it, a mug of what must be coffee in his hand. "Sleep well?"

I smile at him; it's a smile I've perfected over the years of listening to my mother's lectures and tirades as a child. A smile that says, I may appear to agree with you but I'm already plotting your murder. Maybe I am a hypocritical Christian like Lucas says.

"Can you explain this to me?" I hold up the dress, my smile slackening a bit as his expression remains the same: blank, nonchalant, at ease.

"It's a dress," he stated flatly. "Is there some deeper meaning I am meant to derive from it?"

I hear whispers from my left and it faintly registers in my mind—with the help of my peripheral vision—that Adelina and Bianca are present, though they quickly scatter. Antonio takes a step toward me. I hold out the dress between us as if to ward him off.

"Why am I here? Why did you take me on a date last night?" I ask him. My voice is softer than I would like, more gentle, like I'm speaking to a child instead of a criminal.

He doesn't really answer my question, just making yet another stride to me instead. "Do you remember what I told you last night?"

The intoxicating scent of spices and musk fills my head and I struggle to breathe, to think. I put out my free hand and wind up touching his chest. "I... you told me that I didn't want to know."

"The same answer applies here," he says, and then starts to back up, walk over to the coffee pot to refill the cup in his hand, like this is just a casual morning chat about the weather.

"No it doesn't!" I shout, louder than I intended to. He doesn't flinch or wince. Why would he? I'm sure he's encountered far scarier things and people than me, the stuff of my nightmares barely scratching the surface of his everyday life. "I want to know why you have a closet full of clothes that are exactly to my taste and why you picked me, out of all the girls in the city of New York, to be your date last night."

His face is still guarded—stony, even—as those grey eyes pierce mine. "Why not?"

"That's not an answer," I snap. Hot tears sting my eyes. This is why I hate getting angry. I always end up crying. "Please, can't you just be honest with me?"

"Why didn't you leave?" He says abruptly, emotion flashing across his face all of a sudden. "Why didn't you get the hell out the second you knew who I was, what I do? You could have left. I would have let you go. But you didn't. Were you scared of what I might do to you?"

I suck in a breath, processing his words even as my mind scrambled for a comeback. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Answer my question and I'll answer yours."