He ignores the question. “Get dressed.”
I stare at him, then at the clothes, then back at him. “Where are we going?”
His expression doesn’t change, but I know the answer before he even speaks.
He knows about the meeting.
I fold my arms, staying exactly where I am, and retort, “Good morning, Martine. Can you please put these clothes on? We have somewhere we need to be. Oh, and sorry for leaving for two days without so much as a nod, by the way."
Hayden exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. He looks tired, which is unsettling in its way. Hayden never looks anything but controlled.
“I’m not in the mood for your childlike defiance,” he sneers at me.
“Oh, well, excuse me,” I say, sliding out of bed but making no move to take the clothes. “I was under the impression that being locked in your house meant I got to at least know when you were coming and going.”
His jaw tenses. “You’re not locked in.”
I gesture vaguely around me. “Oh, right, my mistake. I just can’t leave. Totally different.”
He levels me with a flat look. “Martine.”
“Hayden,” I mirror his tone perfectly.
He stares at me for a moment, then shakes his head, exasperated. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re a control freak,” I shoot back. “Where are we going?”
“Get dressed.”
I cross my arms tighter. “Tell me where we’re going.”
“No,” he says, voice dropping lower, sharper.
I raise an eyebrow. “And I’m not dressing until you tell me.”
Hayden stares at me like he’s considering throwing me over his shoulder just to end the argument. “You think I’m letting you go meet with the lawyer alone?”
I narrow my eyes. “So youaretaking me.”
He sighs, clearly losing patience.
His fingers twitch at his sides like he’s resisting the urge to strangle me. “Be downstairs in five minutes, Martine.”
I smirk despite myself. “I’m not even dressed yet.”
His nostrils flare, but instead of responding, he turns and walks out, muttering something under his breath.
I take that as a victory.
I dress in the outfit he threw at me, a mid-length sweater dress, soft against my skin, clearly chosen for warmth rather than appearance. I throw on a pair of heeled boots, slip on a littlelip gloss, and straighten my hair, knowing it will irritate him that I’m taking my time.
I grab a Burberry trench coat and leave the room.
When I finally make it downstairs and out the front door, I stop short, my breath catching in my throat.
The car is obscene. Not just expensive. It’s iconic. A Bugatti EB110 GT. Sleek and impossibly rare, its polished red curves gleam under the morning light like something sculpted rather than built. It looks like it belongs in a museum, behind velvet ropes and bulletproof glass, yet here it is, purring with its owner taking it out for a casual ride.
And then there’s him.
