The Train Never Leaves The Station – Autumn
The Train Never Leaves The Station
Autumn
T he spa air is thick with lavender and eucalyptus, steeping the room in heat and silence. Tucked into the hills, this suite feels worlds away from Ryde and his men, from the chaos still pulsing in my head.
I let the tension drain from my limbs, but the literal weight on my chest stays right where it is. The binder Kylie gave me.
I lift it again—this time, I force myself to flip through the pages.
The first few pages are littered with lists of addresses and coordinates in tiny print. By the fifth page, I realize these are all residences and businesses suspected to belong to Ryder. In the margins, there are scrawled notes—LLCs, cryptic names of people I know I’ll never meet.
I flip again.
A new tab catches my breath: Suspected Involvement in Mass Murder . I brace myself for details about the mansion fire, but instead I’m hit with something far stranger.
Sixteen faces.
They all bear his stunning blue eyes. His jawline. His impossible calm.
They have to be his family…
On the next page, the same faces appear again—this time arranged neatly, with birthdates and death dates listed beside them. There are no names, but one thing unites them all: the same date of death.
There’s no listed cause.
I stare at the page, heart thudding. Why didn’t he die with them? Why was he spared when no one else was?
I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to keep going. I slam the binder shut and shove it aside.
Needing a distraction, I cross the suite and try the door to the heated pool.
Locked.
I grab a robe, slip it over my skin, and step into the hallway in search of someone who can help.
The warmth of the suite vanishes behind me. The air in the corridor is cooler now—noticeably so, like the heat’s been siphoned out on purpose.
No attendant in sight.
I move toward the hot tub lounge, but the space is silent and still. Abandoned.
The candlelit corridor—where a dozen patrons were chatting just minutes ago—is now deserted. No voices. No laughter. Just wax pooling onto marble and a silence that curls under my skin.
I clutch the robe tighter and step into the lobby, my breath catching the second I see them—five suited men, seated like statues in velvet chairs, each one watching me like they’ve been waiting.
The one closest to the exit stands.
“Here you are,” he says, holding out an iced coffee. “I was told this is your favorite.”
It is, but…
“You can come with me now, Miss Jane,” he says. “It’s time to work.”
I blink. “ What ?”
“Would you prefer a different beverage before we leave?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Please tell Mr. Rochester that I won’t be leaving. I’m off today.”
“He figured you’d say that.” He taps something on his phone and holds it out.
“I don’t have time to argue with you today, Miss Jane,” Ryder says the moment I hold the phone, his voice clipped and cold.
“You said, ‘I’ll see you in two weeks.’”
“I said ‘ soon ,’ but I’ll probably see you then, too.”
“You literally said?—”
“I didn’t mean the next two weeks.” He cuts me off. “My apologies for not making that clearer.”
“Ryder, look?—”
“I am looking. Start walking with him toward the car. This is very important to me.”
“Well, ‘boundaries’ are important to me.” I feel my jaw tightening. “After this one, I really need to be done.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’d rather just… date you instead of work for you, since this randomness without a schedule doesn’t work for me.”
“I’ll print you a schedule then,” he says. “Start walking.”
He hangs up without another word.
He gestures toward the door with practiced ease—like this is just another item on his list.
I fall into step behind him, not because I want to, but because I know this isn’t a battle I’ll win. Not today. He’s made the rules clear. And for now, I’ll play along—just long enough to figure out how to break them.
The elevator hums as it ascends, the silence between Ryder’s men and me stretching longer than the ride itself. I’ve been in this building before, and as the scent of rosemary and charred wood continues to sift through the air, the memory locks into place.
Resno’s…
The doors glide open, revealing the same floor I stepped onto the day I signed my divorce papers. The day Ryder’s lawyer begged me to run away from him…
Tonight, the panoramic windows with the stunning view of the Puget Sound are nothing more than a memory. They’re covered with black papers, and guarded with steel-gray warehouse racks.
There are no clothed tables for patrons to sit and dine, only a long wooden one at the far corner with two chairs, where Ryder is standing by, waiting for me.
He gestures for me to walk forward, and I oblige.
Behind me, his men rush away, and then new men begin entering the room, rolling in stacks of boxes that they place on the warehouse shelves.
“Good evening, Miss Jane,” Ryder says. “How was your drive?”
I refuse to answer.
“Have a seat,” he commands, and I don’t bother protesting that request.
A man in all gray moves to the other side of the table. He unpacks a massive black machine that takes up most of the surface. Then he plugs it into the wall, powering its screen without a word.
Ryder pulls out a thick bundle of hundred-dollar bills and drops them in front of me.
“It’s rare when someone surprises me,” he says to me, as more boxes roll into the room. “I would’ve never guessed you had an ulterior motive at your crafts store job, especially after getting deported for the same crime in Canada. I’m impressed.”
I don’t say a word.
I just keep watching as the boxes continue to fill the room, as they block the windows and nearly touch the ceiling.
My counterfeit operation was a hobby, and Crafts & Notes provided me with the key to more than just the violins.
They sold the best paper for making counterfeit, but I swore that I’d only make enough to get away from Nate.
The authorities in America wouldn’t take too kindly to discovering that I hadn’t learned my lesson from years ago, so I only made enough to cover a few thousand dollars.
I swore I’d never do it again.
I’d never be anywhere near it again…
“Pick those up for me,” Ryder says, pointing to the stack. “Tell me which ones are real.”
Obliging, I flip through the stack slowly, letting my thumb touch the edge of each one. Then I flip them over and flip through them slower, not even needing to run through the usual list of fifty tests.
“They’re all fake,” I say.
“You barely checked them, Miss Jane…”
“There’s no reason to check them any further.” I set them down. “They’re not real.”
Ryder stares at me for several moments before signaling to the Grey Man.
The man collects the stack and feeds them into the machine.
It whirs and beeps, flipping the bills backward and forward, and then it flashes red.
For counterfeit.
“Very good,” Ryder says, looking at his watch. “Mr. Johnson here will verify your work when you’re done checking the rest.”
“ The rest ?”
“Yes, Miss Jane.” He gestures to the boxes that have damn near filled the entire room at this point. “Keep the real ones on the right side of the beam, and the fake ones on the left.”
“Checking this many—assuming that some actually are viable—would take me at least three days. Minimum.”
“Good. There’s a bedroom suite behind the exit door,” he says. “I’d prefer it if you only slept when you absolutely have to. I have a deadline to meet, and three days sounds decent enough, so you can get started now.”
“No.”
The entire room instantly stills.
The men stop pushing boxes mid-stroll. Mr. Johnson’s jaw unhinges, but it never hits the floor.
“No, what, Miss Jane?” Ryder narrows his eyes.
“No, I can’t get started now,” I say. “I can start tomorrow after I get my full day off, and after I contemplate whether or not I want to get involved with something that might get me sent to prison.”
His jaw ticks, but everything else in this room remains frozen.
“Am I asking for too much?” I speak a bit louder. “Haven’t I done enough for you—on your terms—already?”
“I need everyone to leave this room and get off this floor.” Ryder’s voice is clipped. “ Now .”
His men exit without hesitation. No glances. No questions.
The double doors slam hard behind Mr. Johnson, and only me and Ryder are left.
He doesn’t move at first. He just watches me like he’s weighing something. Then he starts strolling toward me—slow and deliberate.
With every step he takes forward, I try to take one back, but I can’t move. His haze is pinning me to the spot, and before I know it, he’s standing right in front of my chair.
“You’re not allowed to speak to me like that in front of my staff,” he says. “You do that again, and they’ll start thinking you’re a weakness of mine.”
“I—”
“You’ve interrupted me enough.” He cuts me off, wrapping his fingers around my wrist, pulling me to my feet. Then to him. His mouth claims mine—hot, bruising, a demand I can’t deny.
He turns me toward the table, sweeping aside papers and pushing me flat against the cold wood. His hand slides between my thighs, fingers stroking with just enough pressure to unravel me slowly.
“Promise me you won’t talk to me like that again,” he growls against my throat, lips brushing heat into my skin.
He pushes inside, hard and unrelenting, then stills. His fingers tighten on my hips.
“You come when I say. Not before.”
He moves again—slow, brutal thrusts that steal the breath from my lungs. Then he stops. Holds.
Another thrust. Then stillness.
“ Say it .”
“Say what?” I gasp, dizzy.
“That you’re mine. That you’ll follow the rules.”
I don’t speak fast enough.
He pulls out entirely, letting the cool air hit where I need him most. “ Say it .”
“I’m yours,” I breathe. “I’ll follow the rules.”
He slides back into me, thrusts harder, deeper, until my climax coils tight, until I’m desperate, trembling.
Then he stops again.
I sob. He waits.
“ Please ,” I whisper.
Only then does he let me fall. My orgasm tears through me like fire, and I shatter beneath him, fingers clawing at the table for balance.
His forehead presses to mine, chest heaving. Then he slowly eases out of me.
He takes my hand and leads me toward the far side of the room, through a side door I hadn’t noticed before. The private bedroom suite.
I stop in the entryway, awestruck. The room is massive—floor-to-ceiling windows blacked out with heavy drapes, a chandelier overhead, and a king-sized bed made up in midnight gray.
He guides me into the connected bathroom, turns on the tub, and adds a splash of soap. The water warms quickly, bubbles rising until they spill over the lip and onto the tile.
Without a word, he undresses me. Slowly. Thoughtfully.
Then he shuts off the water and steps back just enough to speak.
“Four days is as long as I can give you. You’ll need to try to finish before then…”
“Yes…” is all I can manage. I’m still floating somewhere high.
He studies me, expression unreadable, as I sink slowly into the tub.
“Why the hell did you defy me and buy a one-way plane ticket after I told you not to leave?”
“I didn’t.” My voice is hoarse. “I think Kylie did it. Just in case. But I’m not going anywhere.”
He studies me, expression unreadable.
“Good,” he says. “Because you don’t get to run from this.”
End of Episode 12