These two days have passed excruciatingly slowly. I still haven't figured out what my father is up to, but it doesn't matter. Sometimes it's better not to know.

Finally, I'm heading towards the exit of the clinic. It's unbearably hot today, and even though it's March, today's weather feels like summer.

I take a deep breath to fill my lungs with oxygen and lift my head to let the sun's rays hit my face. Sebastian puts my suitcase in the trunk, while Damiano waits for me patiently. He stands tall, arms crossed as if he's in a defensive stance, with his back leaning against the tinted window of his black BMW.

His light brown hair is shaved so short that he could easily be mistaken for a rookie soldier just been granted his first leave. He's wearing a black short-sleeved t-shirt that hugs his body, accentuating his muscles. If I look closely, I can even make out the contours of his abs beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

He has a stern and imposing demeanor, but I can't read him much because his black Ray-Ban sunglasses completely hide his gaze.

I get into the car and sit in the back without us exchanging a word yet. He closes the door for me and sits in the front. We start driving, and I notice him scanning me carefully through the rearview mirror. I, feeling awkward, pull my black dress down to cover my exposed thigh.

"Where would you like me to take you, Miss?" he asks, his voice serious.

"Oh, come on! 'Where would you like me to take you, Miss?'" I repeat, emphasizing the formality. "You can just talk to me informally, you know. We're not that far apart in age. There's no need for all that 'Miss' stuff!"

He doesn't respond to my attempt to break the ice. Whether he's just cold or professional, his silence makes me feel awkward. I also find it a bit absurd that he's addressing me with such formalities, especially since he's only five years older than me.

"Well," I reply, "I'd like you to drop me off here," I add, pointing to my favorite pastry shop.

Damiano stops the car. "I'll wait here."

"No need," I answer, encouraging him to leave. "I'll walk." I feel like I need some exercise after all these days of being immobile.

"There's no chance," he declares boldly, "I've been given clear instructions to stay with you, Miss. Take your sweet, and I'll wait here," he replies with a small dose of irony.

"Why are you insisting?" I respond, my tone slightly irritated. "Do you think I don't know what I'm doing?"

He adjusts the mirror to focus on me. "It's not about whether you know what you're doing or not. It's a matter of security. And your father's instructions are clear."

"Instructions? Don't try to act all responsible with me. I think I've proven I can take care of myself. I'm not a child!"

"This is something you should discuss with your father, Miss" he replies with the same cold tone, maintaining the polite "Miss." "I'm responsible for your safety, and if anything goes wrong, I'll be the one to blame."

"Oh, of course," I reply, unable to hide my sarcasm. "I suppose if anything happens to me, it'll be your fault for letting me decide on my own."

"Exactly."

"Well then," I respond and open the door, my irritation evident. "I'll go for a walk and do whatever I want. Don't try to follow me. If you do, I'll take it as an insult."

He doesn't say anything. I stand up, grab my quilted leather bag with a swift motion, and as I get out of his car, I slam the door hard. I don't want to see him anymore. A few minutes later, I'm already at Central Park. I start walking quickly, trying to shake off the tension I feel. But I know he won't let me walk away that easily.

My phone starts ringing incessantly, but I pay no attention. It doesn't take long before I hear him following me. I don't need to look at him to know he's there. He stops in front of me, without saying a word. His gaze is cold, almost as though he's watching me intently.

"You don't need to follow me," I tell him, without looking at his face. "I'm not a child."

"Yes, you've already said that," he replies coldly.

I take a deep breath and finally turn to look at him. I can't stand his behavior any longer. "My father called you, didn't he?" I say, trying not to sound frustrated, but my voice betrays me.

He doesn't respond. He stays silent, staring at me as if he couldn't care less about our family matters. His voice remains cold when he finally decides to speak.

"He called me because you didn't pick up the phone. I was ordered to bring you back."

I quickly make a gesture with my hand, looking at him with disappointment. "Let me go," I say, trying to step past him, but he's faster.

"I'm not letting you go," he says firmly, grabbing my wrist tightly.

"Let me go!" I yell, trying to push him away, but it's like I'm talking to a wall. He doesn't budge. He turns and grabs me, literally lifting me like a sack over his shoulder, not paying attention to anything around him.

"What are you doing?!" I shout loudly, trying to hit his back, but it's like he doesn't even feel it.

"You don't have a choice," he says calmly, still holding me, and everyone around us is staring in confusion. Some are laughing, others look shocked, but none of the passersby dares to say anything.

"Let me go! I'm not some object for you to just pick up like that!" I yell once again, and I can feel he's wearing that look, the one that combines seriousness and determination.

And then, I realize it. All this tension... maybe I like it. The way he picks me up, makes me react. It's almost like a game, and... no, I can't admit it, but... there's something about it. I feel my body tighten as he holds me on his shoulder, and for a moment, I almost want to laugh. Because... I'm sure this isn't normal at all. But the fact that he makes me feel something, even if it's anger, is... interesting. Maybe I'm crazy, because who would want someone to just pick them up like that and carry them without asking? Well, of course, me!

I won't even admit it to myself. I should tell him again to let me go, shout louder this time, but something keeps me silent. Maybe it's the way he watches me... or the fact that he knows I could escape, but I don't.

"Alright, this is clearly over the top," I finally say, trying to make the situation seem more comical than it is. Deep down, something tells me it isn't funny at all. "I'm not some object for you to carry like this, Damiano!"

He doesn't even smile, keeping the same serious, almost indifferent expression. But I know he's listening. I know he is.

"If I wanted to carry you, I'd do it my way," he says seriously, and the smile I try to hide betrays me.

I don't know whether I should push him further or just let him take me home. The truth is, I don't want to be locked inside. After all, the guy is just doing the job my father assigned him, and I... I'm enjoying this. (;) Maybe it's the most interesting thing that's happened to me in months. And that's pathetic. Am I really this desperate? I don't even see that he's dragging me against my will, and yet, I say nothing...