Chapter Eight

When I woke up, I was in his arms.

It wasn’t a dream. I hadn’t imagined it.

Jillian Colbert—the man who terrified me, confused me, and made my heart stutter in ways I wasn’t proud of—was holding me like I was something precious.

I didn’t dare move. Not at first.

His arm was draped over my waist, one leg tangled between mine, and his face was nestled in my neck. His breath, slow and even, warmed my skin.

For a moment, I let myself pretend.

Pretend he cared. That I wasn’t just a pawn. That last night hadn’t been some twisted form of mafia comfort or damage control after Alyssa’s visit.

But fantasies are fragile things.

And Jillian was always the one to break them.

He stirred, then shifted away from me without a word. No kiss. No glance. Just silence as he got up, pulled on a white shirt, and adjusted his watch.

Back to business.

I sat up slowly, the coldness in the room now echoing the one I felt inside.

“You’re leaving?” I asked softly.

“Work.” He didn’t look at me as he answered. “Stay inside today.”

“Why?”

His eyes finally met mine. “Because I said so.”

And then he was gone.

Hours passed.

I tried reading. Tried sketching. Tried anything to distract myself.

But nothing worked. My thoughts were consumed with him.

With her.

Alyssa had gotten under my skin. Her words stuck to me like oil I couldn’t scrub off.

He doesn’t fall in love. He protects. He uses. But he doesn’t love.

Was she right? Was I just the new toy in his collection?

I didn’t have long to dwell on it because Maria entered the room, this time with urgency on her face.

“There’s someone here to see you.”

“Who?”

She hesitated. “Miss Alyssa.”

I stiffened.

“What does she want?”

“She didn’t say, but she brought something with her. A gift, she claims.”

Alyssa. Of course.

I should’ve said no.

I should’ve locked the door and pretended I wasn’t home.

But I didn’t.

I followed Maria to one of the side parlors, and there she was—lounging like a queen on the velvet couch, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, a smug little box in her hand.

“Well, if it isn’t our favorite houseguest,” she said with a sugary smile.

“Alyssa,” I greeted coldly. “What do you want?”

She held up the box. “I brought you something. Thought it might… help you understand the man you’re about to marry.”

I eyed the box like it might explode. “I don’t want your games.”

“Too bad. You’re already in one.” She stood and stepped closer. “Go ahead. Open it.”

I hesitated… then lifted the lid.

Inside was a photo. An old one.

Jillian and Alyssa, on a beach somewhere, tangled up in each other, smiling in a way I’d never seen him smile before.

There were more beneath it. Dozens. Different cities. Different nights. All of them screaming the same thing: You’ll never be her.

My chest tightened.

“You don’t know him,” I said, trying to stay steady. “Not anymore.”

She leaned in, voice low and poisonous. “You think just because he kissed you, touched you, he feels something? Sweetheart… he kisses everyone like that. You’re just convenient.”

I wanted to slap her. Or scream. Or cry.

But instead, I smiled.

A slow, mocking one.

“You know what’s funny?” I said, stepping closer until we were almost chest to chest. “For someone who’s so confident Jillian doesn’t care about me, you sure spend a lot of time trying to convince me he doesn’t.”

She flinched. Just slightly.

And I knew I’d hit a nerve.

Before she could respond, the door opened behind us.

Jillian.

Perfect timing.

His gaze snapped to Alyssa, then to the photos now clutched in my hand.

His face darkened.

“I told you,” he said to her, voice sharp as a blade, “to stay away from her.”

She turned on the charm like a switch. “I was just being friendly.”

“Leave. Now.”

She gave me one last look—furious, wounded, and desperate all at once—before brushing past him and disappearing down the hall.

I turned to him, my voice barely above a whisper. “Why do you let her talk to me like that?”

“I didn’t. And I won’t again.”

“Then why does she still act like she owns you?”

He ran a hand through his hair, clearly trying to hold back whatever storm brewed inside him.

“We had history. That’s all it is now—history.”

“Then prove it,” I said.

His eyes locked with mine.

And then he did.

He crossed the room, pulled me into his arms, and kissed me.

Not soft. Not slow.

But hard.

Possessive.

Almost like he needed to remind both of us who I belonged to.

His hands gripped my hips. My fingers tangled in his shirt. The world blurred around us.

When he pulled back, breath ragged, he said, “She means nothing. You… are mine.”

I should’ve been afraid.

I should’ve pushed him away.

But I didn’t.

I wanted to believe him.

I needed to.

Later that night, I found myself standing on the balcony, staring at the city lights.

Jillian had gone downstairs for another late-night call with his father. The air was cool against my skin, and I needed the space to breathe.

That’s when I saw it.

A shadow near the gate. A figure lurking—too still, too purposeful.

My heart jumped.

I leaned in, squinting.

It was a man. Dressed in black. Watching the house.

Watching me.

And then, slowly, he raised his hand… and pointed directly at me.