The cottage door slams hard enough that I hear it over the sound of the ocean.
I should feel guilty. Should regret the way I stood over her, the way I admitted to watching her, confirming every warning her mother ever gave her about men like me.
I don't.
I pour myself another whiskey and lean against the window frame, watching the lights flicker on in the cottage. Living room first, then the bedroom. She's moving through the space, probably trying to calm down, trying to decide if she's staying or leaving.
She's not leaving.
Not because I won't let her. But because she doesn't want to.
I saw it in her eyes when I had her trapped, when I was close enough to feel her breath quicken, to see her pupils dilate. She was angry, yes. Terrified, maybe. But she was also drawn to me in a way that scared her more than anything I actually said.
She felt it too. This pull between us. This inevitability.
My phone buzzes on the desk. Marcus again. The seventh call today. I silence it without looking and take a drink.
The Singapore deal can wait. Everything can wait.
She's here. In my house. Close enough that I could walk down that pathway right now and finish what we started in the dining room.
I won't. Not tonight.
But soon.
I've been patient for so long. Years of watching her from a distance, learning everything about her, waiting for the right moment to make contact. The photograph I stole when I was ten years old is still in my desk drawer, edges worn from how many times I've looked at it over the years.
Jade Catalano. The girl who became an obsession before I was old enough to understand what that meant.
And now she's here, sleeping in my guest cottage, probably texting her friend about what a mistake this was. Probably planning to leave in the morning.
Let her plan.
I've given her the illusion of choice, the illusion of freedom. The unlocked doors, the offer to drive her to the airport whenever she wants, the promise that the money has no strings attached.
All of it is true.
And all of it is a lie.
Because the truth is, I won't let her go.
I'm not proud of it. But I'm not ashamed either.
I want her. I've wanted her for so long that the wanting has become part of who I am. And now that she's here, the idea of letting her slip away is unbearable.
The lights in the cottage bedroom go off.
She's going to sleep. Or trying to.
I wonder if she'll actually manage it. If she'll lie there in that expensive bed, in those high thread count sheets, and think about me the way I've been thinking about her.
I wonder if she'll replay how I stared at her. If she'll remember the way her breath caught when I leaned in close. If she felt what I felt in that moment when our faces were inches apart and every instinct I had screamed at me to close the distance and kiss her.
I didn't.
Control is everything. If I'd kissed her tonight, if I'd given in to what I wanted, she would have run. Would have confirmed every fear her mother planted in her head about rich men who take what they want.
So I gave her space. Let her walk away. Let her think she has power in this situation.
