The Trip To The Station
Never in the history of a person saying “don’t freak out” right before dropping freak-out-worthy news has it ever actually stopped anyone from freaking out. Especially not when the bomb being dropped is your boyfriend announcing out of nowhere that he has a wife.
I’m freaking out.
I am so, so, freaking out.
Every nerve in my body is buzzing like it’s been plugged into an electric fence. My chest feels tight, my thoughts are all over the place, and my brain is trying to reboot like someone just yanked the power cord out and jammed it back in again. Because what the hell did he mean by, “She's my wife”?
Knox is leading me out of the building, hand clamped around mine like he’s afraid I’ll run otherwise.
Back in that private booth, I’d screamed at him for answers—naked and shaking—and Knox gave me this false calm. Said he’d explain everything on the way to the station. That we needed to go. That now wasn’t the time.
I didn’t buy it, but I let him think I did.
I got dressed and let him hold my hand all the way out of the ring and into the elevator, trying to be patient. But the moment the doors slide open and we're aboveground again, I yank my hand free and start walking fast.
“Bunny,” Knox says behind me. His footsteps pick up. Then his hand wraps around my arm. “Don’t make a scene.”
Don’t make a scene?
I twist my head to glare at him just as we pass the bouncer, who nods.
“Have a good night, Storm,” the guy says, like none of this is weird. He's probably seen this exact scene play out a million times in this place.
Knox pulls me along until we’re outside, and the heavy metal door slams behind us.
The air outside is cool. Much quieter than the chaos back underground.
We make it all the way to the car before I lose all my self-control, turning to face him.
“Is this a good enough spot to make a scene, Knox?” I ask.
He sighs, stepping closer. “It’s not what you think, I promise.”
“Oh? Because when someone says ‘I have a wife’ to his girlfriend, it usually means they have a wife. It’s not that complicated.”
“It’s complicated,” he says quietly. “It’s not exactly a marriage. It's a favor.”
I laugh without meaning to. “A favor? I’m supposed to believe that you—the man who doesn't give a fuck about anyone but himself—married someone as a favor?”
His hands come up slowly, fingers sliding into my hair with the kind of quiet tenderness that catches me off guard.
Then his forehead rests against mine, breath mixing with mine. His eyes are closed like he’s trying to gather the right words, or maybe he’s just hoping I’ll stop shaking.
“That's not right, baby, is it?” he says. “This man who doesn't give a fuck about anyone gives a fuck about you.”
I hold my breath, trying so hard not to give in to his sweet words, not to soften into jelly and collapse in his arms.
“Just get in the car, Sloane. I’ll explain everything on the way. I don’t want Soraya sitting in that station any longer than necessary.”
At the mention of that name, my mood resets to square one.
I push him back. Hard enough to make him stumble a little.
“You’re pissing me off more, Knox.”
“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, his voice coaxing. “Just name it.”
I dig into my purse, my fingers fumbling through lipstick tubes, receipts, and loose change as I fish out my keys. The keys feel like razors when I finally find them.
Without even thinking, I rip them out and slap them against his chest.
“There’s no fucking way I’m driving you to go see your wife,” I say, voice tight. “You drive.”
I don’t wait to see his reaction. I spin on my heel and march around to the passenger side, my heels crunching against the gravel.
I swear I hear him chuckling under his breath.
The moment I’m seated and buckled in, I turn to glare at him as he climbs into the driver’s seat. I don’t say a word—I don’t need to. Every inch of my posture screams, ‘You better start explaining, or I swear to God…’
The moment he's in, he groans. His knees jam awkwardly against the dash, the seat too far forward for his long legs. With a grunt, he reaches down and yanks the adjustment lever, dragging the seat back. His hand slaps the wheel as he finally finds a position that suits him.
Then he settles back with a sigh and starts the engine. He stares straight ahead, refusing to meet my eyes.
I watch him. Ten seconds. Twenty. I count them down in my head like a ticking bomb.
“The more you prolong this,” I say slowly, “the more murderous I get.”
“Who are you going to kill, Bunny?” he says. “Me? Will you strangle me to death? That would be a beautiful way to die, by the way.”
“Don’t test my patience, Knox.”
He’s still smiling.
What the hell is so funny?
I narrow my eyes, barely restraining the urge to reach across the console and yank the wheel off the road. But before I can act on my intrusive thoughts, he speaks.
“When I was overseas,” he says, “I got captured. I’ve told you this before.”
I don’t respond. I just look at him.
“Those weeks I spent in that camp were the most horrible days of my entire life. I enlisted when I was eighteen and served for almost eight years, through thick and thin, but that was my breaking point. No sunlight. Barely any food or water. No clean air. Just cold stone, chains, pain, and the sound of people screaming.”
His voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it. A strain.
“I couldn’t move. Couldn’t sleep. I remember chewing on my own shirt just to trick my stomach into thinking it had something in it.”
The car turns onto a busier road, and I stay silent, throat tight. I don’t know if this is about his wife or if he’s saying this to calm me down—but it’s working. It’s so working. My anger is softening like wet paper. I didn’t expect this. Didn’t expect him to let me in like this.
“There was a man,” he continues, fingers flexing on the steering wheel. “He came every few days. I didn’t know how often, really—there was no sense of time in there. But he’d come. Drop a little food. A little water. Watch me eat. Then sneak the wrappers out. I figured he was taking a risk to sneak those items in.”
He swallows hard.
“One day, he helped me escape. Guess the food was his way of strengthening me enough to run.” His jaw is tight. “But before he helped me, he told me what it would cost him. He said the second they realized what he’d done, he was dead. No question. So, I had a price to pay. He made me memorize a number, told me his daughter had smuggled herself into the US, told me to find her. Take care of her. Give her a better life. That was the debt.”
His knuckles go white on the wheel.
“So when I got back home… I found her. Soraya. And I married her. We've been married for five years.”
I don’t know if I should say anything. My lips part, then press back together. The car is quiet now, save for the hum of the engine and the faint whistle of wind sneaking in through the closed windows. Knox hasn’t said another word. His grip on the steering wheel has loosened a bit, but there’s still a tightness in his shoulders, like he’s holding something in, or maybe he’s emptied it all out.
And that’s the thing. I think he has.
That pause, the way he let his voice trail off—it tells me he’s said all he wants to say.
I guess it's my turn to speak.
“That was very brave of you,” I say. “What you did for her.”
“I made a promise. I keep my promises. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone that story out loud. Only Yara. Endless hours of therapy have taught me how to put those events into words, I guess.” He turns to me. “I would never cheat on anyone, Sloane. It’s not in my nature.”
“But you’re still married to her.”
“On paper, yeah.”
“Five years is enough time to get a green card, isn't it?”
“She has it.”
“So make me understand why you’re still married.”
The car slows at a turn, his foot gliding over the brake.
“I don’t know,” he says. “She said we had to stay married for a while. Just to be safe. And I didn’t see a reason to push it. I wasn’t planning on marrying anyone else.”
A dozen thoughts fly through my head, fast and intrusive. What if she doesn’t want a divorce at all? What if she wants to stay married? What if she’s not just being careful as she claims—but in love?
I can’t voice those thoughts. They’d sound stupid out loud. But they sit there, doing their job of making me doubtful.
I remain silent for the rest of the drive. So does Knox.
The precinct comes into view.
Just before we reach the parking lot, I ask quietly, “So you and her never… you know. Had a thing?”
Knox scoffs and looks at me.
“You’re always so cute when you’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous,” I mutter. “Unless there’s a reason I should be.”
He chuckles as he pulls into a parking spot and cuts the engine. “Come on,” he says. “When we go in, you can ask her yourself if we've had sex.”