The weight of all my problems—it all sits heavily onmy shoulders. But this... confronting Caine Hall like this... it feels like jumping from a burning building without knowing what's below.
"Actually, Marco," I say, my voice shaking, "I've changed my mind. I don't need to see Mr. Hall after all."
Marco looks confused. "But you came all this way, and Mr. Hall is expecting you."
"I know, but—"
"His office is right this way."
I reluctantly follow Marco down a hallway lined with abstract art that probably costs more than my house. We stop at a set of double doors, and Marco knocks before opening them.
Caine's office is breathtaking—floor-to-ceiling windows frame the Portland skyline. Everything is sleek glass and brushed steel, minimalist but powerful. Like him.
And there he is, rising from behind a massive desk. He's wearing a charcoal three-piece suit that fits him like it was painted on, a blue tie that makes his eyes pop. My mouth goes dry.
"Thank you, Marco," Caine says, his voice smooth as honey.
Marco nods and retreats.
Caine inches closer, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He glides toward the door, each step measured and confident. His arm brushes against mineas he passes—a brief, electric contact that sends a shiver down my spine. I catch another hint of that nice deodorant he wears.
He reaches for the door with those long, beautiful fingers—the same fingers that have made me come harder than I ever had before. His movements are hypnotic, like everything is happening in slow motion. I can't help but stare at the way his suit jacket stretches across his shoulders as he pushes the heavy door closed.
The metallic click of the lock echoes through the space, reverberating in my chest like a final verdict. There's something so definitive about that sound—a period at the end of a sentence, a door closing on any possibility of escape.
His long fingers linger on the lock for a long beat before he turns back to me with that maddeningly slow pace of his. The gesture isn't just practical; it's a statement, a declaration of his domain.
Here, within these glass walls overlooking Portland, Caine makes the rules. His movements, his timing, his space—all meticulously controlled. He doesn't need to say it aloud. The subtle lift of his chin, the quiet confidence in his posture—everything about him radiates authority.
In this moment, I am acutely aware that I've willingly walked into the lion's den, and the lion has just secured the gate.
There's something predatory in his deliberate pace, something that makes me feel like prey. Those stunning green eyes flick back to meet mine for just a moment, and I see something dangerous flickering there—calculation, interest, power.
My heart hammers in my chest. This was a catastrophic mistake.
I inhale sharply, filling my lungs with the scent of him. My fists clench at my sides as I force myself to remember why I stormed in here looking like a disaster. I didn't drive all the way to Portland to stand here speechless while he locks doors and circles me like I'm his next acquisition.
A hint of a smile plays on his lips. “What a nice surprise this is.”
"H-how dare you," I finally manage, my voice shakier than I'd like. "You can't just... you can't just pursue me like this… when you know the power you have over me,” I cry. “Reeves says we’re done with you, and we are, and you can’t put me in this position.”
Caine inches closer and towers over me. His expression remains maddeningly calm, those intense eyes studying me like I'm a particularly challenging shot on the pool table.
“Why are you here, Jenna?” he asks, a playful grin tracing his lips.
I inhale a sharp breath, readying myself for the bigtell-off. "There's…" One more breath. "…a fine line between generosity and abusing one's power. You know you own us. You know we're struggling. You know that with one wave of your finger and a few scribbles on a check, you can make us do anything you want. You can have anything your heart desires. How does that feel? I can't even imagine. You're the puppet master, and we're nothing but dolls with no choices you can toy with… until you get bored with us."
He studies me quietly, silently begging me to rip down my walls, to lay myself bare for him.
“You like to come off as a kind person, but you're manipulative… and selfish,” I go on, surprisingly calm. "You're the worst kind of evil, the wolf in sheep's clothing, pretending to help us, when all you want to do is fuck with us… fuck with Reeves because he punched you when you were kids. Get over it, and get the fuck over me and all this bullshit. I'm just sick of you, and I'm not a fucking whore. You can't pay me for anything else, you fucked up weirdo."
A slow, devious smile stretches his lips. The sight of it drives me mad. "Are you done?" he asks quietly.
I blow out a breath, not sure what else to add. I suddenly feel stupid, confused, and still so, so angry.
"Yes, I am trying to help you because I genuinely like you, Jenna. You're a good person. Why are you really here, Jenna?"
"I'm here because I'm furious!" I take a step forward, emboldened by anger. "I'm not some... some commodity you can use when you're bored. I have a husband, a child—"
