Chapter 19
The car purrs beneath us like it belongs in another world entirely.
Sleek. Expensive in a way that makes my stomach flip.
I knew back in Detroit that Theo had money—he tipped like it, dressed like it, carried himself like it—but sitting in this car now, watching the city lights streak across the glossy dash, I realize I only ever saw the surface.
This is different. This is power disguised as luxury.
His hand grips the gear shift, long fingers resting with lazy control, veins taut under skin.
It’s obscene how sexy it looks—how something so simple makes my thighs press together like I’m trying to hold myself steady.
He isn’t wearing jewelry, no flashy watch tonight, just that hand—strong, sure, and far too easy to imagine curled around his cock.
I force my gaze out the window, but it doesn’t help.
Everything about this car feels intimate, from the leather that molds around me to the quiet hum of the engine.
It smells like him, too—clean spice and heat, like he’s pressed into every inch of it.
Like I’ve been swallowed whole into his space, his rules.
“You’re quiet,” he says, not looking at me, eyes fixed on the road like he doesn’t need to check if I’m unraveling beside him.
I clear my throat. “Maybe I’m just wondering what kind of man drives a car like this.”
“The kind you should probably stay away from.” He shifts gears, a subtle smirk pulling at his mouth. “But it’s a little too late for that.”
“You always make a habit of abducting women from their place of work?” I ask finally, voice dry.
“Only the ones who try to drive me insane.”
“Congratulations, then. You’ve found your masochistic streak.”
His gaze cuts to me, and it’s enough to make me shift in my seat. Those eyes haven’t softened. If anything, they’ve grown sharper, colder. “Don’t confuse me for someone who enjoys pain, Angel,” he says. “I’m the one who gives it.”
Heat floods my cheeks, unwanted, uninvited. I tilt my head away, pretending the blur of city lights outside the tinted glass has my attention. But the truth is, I feel him everywhere—his presence crowding out oxygen, his voice wrapping around me like a velvet rope.
I remind myself of the rules. Keep it cool.
Don’t let him see how he rattles you. But sitting this close, my body betrays me, remembering everything I swore I buried from that night.
The champagne on my tongue, the weight of him pressing me into sheets, the way he said my name was like a prayer and a curse.
“Where are we having dinner?” I ask, softer this time, because I hate the silence stretching between us.
His lips twitch. “At my penthouse.”
I snort. “What is this, Theo? A date?”
His hand rests casually on his knee, but there’s nothing casual about the way his fingers flex, like he’s gripping the urge to touch me instead. “Call it whatever you want. Just know one thing…”
I arch a brow. “And what’s that?”
His voice drops. “When I decide I want something, I don’t let it walk away twice.”
My stomach flips, traitorous. My mouth opens, but I shut it again before I say something reckless. Because the truth is, I don’t know if he’s talking about control. About sex. About me.
And maybe the most terrifying part is—I don’t know which one I’d resist.
The elevator doors whisper open straight into his penthouse, and for a second I don’t move. My heels stay planted, spine stiff, while my eyes sweep over the place.
It’s beautiful in the most clinical, joyless way—glass and stained concrete, sharp-edged furniture in earth tones so dark they may as well be shadows. Polished floors that gleam like they’ve never seen dirt. The entire far wall is glass, the city sprawled beneath us in glittering surrender.
Sure, it’s impressive, but it also makes my skin itch. It feels…staged. Like a set built for a man playing human. Everything curated, nothing lived in.
“Who did your interior design? A caveman?” I ask, stepping over the threshold with a smirk. “Definitely wasn’t a woman.”
Behind me, I hear the soft clink of his keys in a bowl that probably costs more than my entire rent back in Vegas. His voice follows, smooth and detached. “I don’t bring women here.”
I glance back, arching a brow. “Is that supposed to make me feel special?”
“No.” His gaze pins me, flat and merciless. “Just informed.”
I drift toward the windows, tracing my fingertips over the edge of a black marble console.
It holds exactly nothing—no photos, no flowers, not even a book left out of place.
It’s immaculate, impersonal. Empty. “Do you ever think about adding something warm?” I ask.
“A plant, maybe. Or a blanket that doesn’t belong in a billionaire catalog. ”
His mouth curves, humorless. “I own throw pillows.”
“Oh good,” I say, saccharine. “For a second I thought you might be secretly dead inside.”
He brushes past me on his way to the kitchen, his cologne trailing after him like a hand at my throat. Unbothered. Untouchable.
“Then stop complaining.”
I follow him, letting the atmosphere wrap around me. Watching him open drawer after drawer until it’s clear he has no idea where anything is. For the first time tonight, he looks vaguely human. And that might be the most dangerous thing he could show me.
“You said dinner,” I remind him, sliding onto one of the stools at the island.
“I did.”
“Do you have ingredients?”
“No.”
I cross one leg over the other, leaning an elbow on the counter like I’ve got all night to spar with him. “So what’s the plan? Hope it’s not impolite to point out you’ve basically kidnapped me under false pretenses.”
Unbothered, he pulls his phone from his pocket, tapping across the screen without sparing me a glance. “I’m ordering. I just didn’t know what you liked.”
“That’s almost sweet,” I mock, letting the words roll off my tongue like I’m testing him.
He doesn’t bite. Just keeps scrolling with his thumb, setting his phone aside only long enough to work the corkscrew with practiced ease. A bottle of red sighs open like he’s done it a hundred times before. The man multitasks emotional evasion and hospitality without a flicker of effort.
“Thai?” he asks finally, already pouring my glass.
“That depends.”
“On?”
“Whether you’re planning to poison me.”
That earns me the first real crack in his armor—a sharp tug of a smile. “I’m not subtle enough for that.”
I tip my head, studying him. “I don’t know. You’ve perfected the brooding villain routine.”
His brow lifts, steady and infuriating. “And yet you’re here.”
The words sink in, too close to the truth, and my pulse betrays me with a jump. I cover it with a sip of wine, the taste warm and rich as if it can drown the ache clawing its way up my spine.
We fall into silence after that—food on the way, glasses in hand, his presence filling every inch of space between us. It isn’t awkward. It’s loaded. Waiting. Every look, every pause charged with the knowledge that this isn’t just conversation. It’s foreplay, and both of us know it.
When the buzzer finally breaks the standoff, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
“That was fast.”
His mouth curves. “Things can be done quickly when you know the right people.”
He rises, crosses the room, and taps something on a sleek black panel beside the elevator. A soft beep, then a metallic click as the doors slide open again. The delivery guy doesn’t even step inside—just hands over the bag and disappears before I can catch more than a glimpse of his jacket.
Of course. No one lingers here. No one crosses the threshold unless he allows it. The thought curls cold at the edge of my stomach, reminding me I’m not in a place where people say no to him.
He returns with the bag in hand, setting it on the island between us. The smell floods the space—warm, spiced, savory—and my body betrays me with a sharp pang of hunger. I didn’t eat today, but I won't let that show. Not when I’ve already given him too much.
He pulls out the cartons and chopsticks, arranging everything with care that feels almost out of character. He doesn’t ask what I want, just slides a container toward me and waits, as if he already knows I’ll take it. I don’t thank him.
“Are you always this accommodating?” I ask, flicking open the lid. Pad Thai.
“Depends on the guest,” he says, snapping his chopsticks apart with an easy motion.
“And what sort of guest am I, exactly?”
His gaze finds mine, steady. “Still deciding.”
I take a bite and let the heat settle on my tongue. It’s good. Too good for the tension simmering between us. This isn’t dinner—it’s a game, the room is just another ring for us to circle in.
“You don’t cook,” I say, reaching for my wine.
“Nope.”
“You live in a penthouse and can’t sauté a vegetable?”
“I could,” he answers smoothly. “I just prefer not to set off the smoke alarm in front of company.”
“How considerate.”
He shrugs, chewing, and I catch it again—that easy tilt of his body, the roll of his sleeves, the shadow along his jaw. Lips slick with wine and chili oil. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost believe he was normal.
I know better than to take him at face value.
“Tell me something true,” I say, leaning forward like I can corner him with words.
He glances up, the flick of his gaze sharp enough to make me wonder if I’ve pushed too far.
“One thing,” I add quickly, before he can retreat behind that wall of silence. “No games. No dodging. Just something real.”
For a long beat, he studies me without moving, then sets his chopsticks down and leans back. His shoulders ease into the chair as if he’s settling into a decision.
“I hate eating alone.”
It’s not what I expected. It’s a bare truth tossed between us. He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t ask. Because for a moment, that’s enough. It lingers in the space between us, rough and unpolished. Honest.
I nod once, tamping down the urge to pry, and go back to my food.