THE ALGORITHM OF THE FORBIDDEN HEART

Chapter 8

I backed away, my spine hitting the cold wall. "I'm going home. You have no right to follow me. You promised not to usurp my choice!"

She looked at me, her dark eyes reflecting the dim street light. Anger was absent. Only an implacable determination.

"I promised not to force you to talk. But I cannot ignore the threat you pose to yourself. And tonight, urgency overrides protocol," she declared, her voice becoming firm again, but without the usual coldness.

She gave me an ultimatum, a perfect trap.

"You no longer have the choice to be alone. You have two options, Carla: either you come to my house, where I can be certain there will be no distractions. Or I come to your house, and I stay in your living room until daybreak. Choose. But you will not be alone."

She had cut off every secure retreat. She was forcing me to choose between two evils, but ensuring I had a guardian for the night. I looked into her eyes. She wasn't bluffing. She was capable of staying in my living room. The secret of my fortress would be exposed.

I made my decision, the only one that maintained a semblance of control over the conditions.

"Fine," I said, gritting my teeth. "I'll go... to your place."

My surrender was bitter. I had chosen her house, the lesser evil, because I couldn't stand the idea of my personal sanctuary being invaded by her.

Donatella immediately pulled out her phone. She signaled a cab, which stopped next to us.

Just before opening the door, her gaze flicked to my hand, which was still holding the McDonald's paper bag. She acted without even looking at me, with an abrupt and decisive gesture.

She grabbed the bag from my hand and tossed it sharply into a public trash can right next to us.

"Hey!" I exclaimed, outraged by this intrusion into my most harmless choice. I started to retort: "You don't have the right to—"

"I don't have the right," she cut me off, her tone suddenly becoming authoritative.

She opened the taxi door and gave me an imperative nod. "But you won't start this night with junk in your system. Tonight, there is no escape. Get in."

I didn't have the courage, or the strength, to fight for a bag of fries. I clenched my fists, frustrated by this constant control, and got into the taxi, fuming.

The ride was spent in tense silence. I looked out the window, trying to calm down, but the memory of her hug and the anger from her last action gnawed at me.

The taxi finally stopped in front of her house. I was struck by the place. It wasn't a cold luxury building; it was an actual house in New York, something only monumental and very old wealth can afford. I glimpsed the filtered pool and the contours of the garden in the dim night light.

I was embarrassed to be here.

My own luxury was cold, a mirror of my heart. Her house exuded a subtle sophistication, a sense of control manifested in the order of the nature surrounding it. It was a personal luxury, built for comfort, not for display.

She paid the taxi and indicated the path to the door.

"Come in, Carla," she said. "This is my home. You are safe."

As I crossed the threshold, the smell of cleanliness and a faint scent of incense enveloped me. I was in my aggressor's personal sanctuary. The incongruity of the situation was almost comical. I felt like a poorly solved equation, forced to integrate into a system that rejected me.