I close my laptop and walk to my bedroom. The floor-to-ceiling windows here face the ocean and the guest cottage beyond, the glass cool against my palm when I brace my hand against it. I can see a single light still on.
She's awake.
Probably replaying our argument, analyzing every word I said, trying to categorize me as either dangerous or merely intense.
The answer is both.
I'm dangerous because I know exactly what I want and I'll do whatever it takes to get it. I'm intense because I've been waiting for this moment for years, and now that it's here, nothing will stand in my way.
She's mine.
Mine to protect and to claim.
The light in the cottage finally goes off.
Tomorrow I'll show her I can be what she needs. Gentle, considerate, respectful of her boundaries.
Tonight, though, in the privacy of my own thoughts, I can admit the truth.
I don't give fuck about her boundaries. I want to obliterate them.
I want her to need me the way I need her. I want her to crave my presence the way I crave hers.
Soon enough, she'll realize the truth: she’s already mine and she has been as soon as she cashed that check.
The only question now is how long it takes her to admit it.
11
JADE
I'm packing when the sun comes up.
My terrible suitcase lies open on the bed, and I'm throwing clothes into it without bothering to fold them. The black dress from dinner. The jeans I wore on the plane. Everything I brought, which isn't much.
I need to leave. Need to get out of here before I make a mistake I can't take back.
Phoenix Crawford is exactly what my mother warned me about. Rich, controlling, entitled. A man who thinks money solves everything and that watching someone without their knowledge is somehow romantic instead of terrifying.
I zip the suitcase closed and set it on the floor. The broken wheel scrapes against the polished concrete, loud in the quiet cottage.
Now what?
I should call Robert, ask him to drive me to the airport. I need to book a flight back to Boston on my phone and leave before Phoenix even wakes up.
But I don't move.
Instead, I sink onto the edge of the bed and stare at my suitcase like it might have answers.
The check cleared. I checked my bank account three times last night when I couldn't sleep. The money is real. All of it. My mother's hospital bills are paid. My student loans show a zero balance. The credit cards that kept me up at night are settled.
I'm free.
For the first time in years, I don't owe anyone anything. I could quit the coffee shop. Could cut back on tutoring. Could actually focus on writing instead of treating it like a hobby I squeeze in between shifts.
All because of him.
All because Phoenix Crawford decided I was worth almost four hundred thousand dollars.
