IMOGEN'S POV
The familiar streets blurred past the passenger window as Isaac drove through the upscale neighborhoods I'd once known by heart. His hands gripped the steering wheel of the Mercedes, knuckles white with tension, but I found myself studying the curve of his fingers. The same hands that used to trace patterns on my back while expensive coffee brewed in his kitchen.
I shook my head, forcing the memory away. This wasn't the time.
"Almost there," Isaac said, his voice cutting through my thoughts.
The tree-lined street was exactly as I remembered. Grand houses set back from the road behind manicured lawns and iron gates, the kind of neighborhood where privacy mattered more than friendliness. Isaac's house sat at the end of a private drive, the colonial mansion pretending to be something more homely with its white columns still imposing behind perfectly trimmed hedges.
