Chapter 11 - Blair
Waking up alone in Gabriel’s bed feels like a withdrawal symptom. My stomach plummets, my chest aches, and it’s a little harder to breathe.
The mattress on his side is cold, the sheets smooth, as if he was never there.
But the scent of him—sandalwood and pine and something darker that smells like pure trouble—is embedded in the pillows.
It clings to my skin, a constant reminder of the things he did to me in the backseat of his car last night.
My body still aches in the best way possible. Sore muscles, sensitive skin, a heavy throb between my legs that hasn't gone away since we left the fight club. Honestly, it hasn’t gone away since the first time we fucked.
A folded note sits on his pillow, the heavy cream cardstock looking stark against the charcoal pillowcase.
I’ve got business in the city. Eat. Don’t leave the grounds without Jaxon. -G
There’s no "good morning," no "sweetheart." Just a command I can hear clear as day in his deep, rumbly voice in my head.
I should probably be annoyed. I’m an independent woman, not a pet.
But as I trace the sharp slant of his handwriting, a shiver that has nothing to do with the temperature ripples through me.
There’s safety in his dominance. After three years of carrying Ryder’s dead weight, having a man who simply takes control is a drug I’m getting hooked on fast.
But I can’t hide in this bed forever.
I grab my laptop out of my bag in the closet and head to the massive desk by the window. It’s time to stop avoiding the car crash that is my life and assess the damage.
Logging into my business accounts requires a stiff drink or maybe a benzo, but since it’s barely nine a.m., I settle for chamomile. It absolutely does not help.
While the dashboard loads, I wipe my sweaty palms on the t-shirt of Gabriel’s I tossed on and send up a little prayer to whoever’s listening that it’s not as bad as I’m imagining.
I stare at the screen. I blink, thinking maybe the Wi-Fi glitched. I refresh the page.
The number doesn't change.
I’ve been an event planner for five years. I know my cash flow. I know exactly what my operating capital should look like, and the number staring back at me isn't just low. It’s shocking.
Like… someone hacked into my account and went on a shopping spree kind of shocking.
My stomach drops.
I pull up the transaction history. I scroll past the recent cancellations and deposit refunds—painful, but expected—and start looking at the withdrawals.
There.
October 14th. Two thousand dollars gone.
September 2nd. Three thousand gone.
August 20th. Four hundred.
I click the details. The transfers went to an account I don’t recognize, authorized by a user with admin privileges.
My admin privileges.
But I didn't make these transfers.
"Fucking Ryder.” It hits me then, the memory of the day when he offered to help with the accounting when I got overwhelmed. The realization hits me like a kick to the ribs.
This motherfucker.
Around two years ago, that’s when it started. I was drowning in work, and Ryder, the best boyfriend ever, offered to take the "boring admin stuff" off my plate. Let me help you, babe. You’re so stressed.
He wasn't helping. He was fucking stealing.
I dig deeper. The theft goes back months. It’s insidious. Small amounts, never enough to trigger an overdraft or a fraud alert, just enough to keep me struggling. Just enough to keep me stressing about rent, about groceries, about whether I could afford a new dress for his stupid bullshit events.
The final tally sits at the bottom of the spreadsheet. Forty-two thousand dollars.
He didn't just cheat on me. He was robbing me while I was sleeping in his bed. He kept me poor on purpose. He kept me desperate so I’d have to rely on him, so I’d feel grateful for every scrap of attention he threw my way.
Rage, cold and sharp, replaces the shock.
I grab my phone and dial.
"If you're calling to tell me you're legally changing your name to Mrs. Billionaire, I accept the invitation to the wedding," Harper says by way of greeting.
"I need you," I say, my voice shaking with fury. "Come to Gabriel’s. Bring your laptop."
"On my way."
Thirty minutes later, Harper is sitting next to me at the dining room table, her neon pink boot tapping against the floor as her knee shakes. She’s not looking at the architecture or the view or the pretty Christmas tree. She’s staring at my screen with a look that could melt the snow outside.
"Forty grand," she says flatly. "That little leech stole forty grand."
"It gets better," I say, opening my email sent folder. "Look at the archive."
I found it ten minutes ago. A hidden subfolder Ryder set up.
Harper leans in, reading the top email.
Regarding your inquiry: Ashby Events is currently restructuring due to the owner’s personal health crisis. We recommend taking your business elsewhere.
"He told them you were having a mental breakdown?" Harper asks, her voice rising an octave.
"And he told the Symphony Board I was in rehab," I say, pointing to the next one.
He was absolutely systematic about this. He spent the past two years ensuring that every time I got close to a big break, he cut the ladder out from under me. He isolated me, sabotaged me, and stole from me, all while telling me I was lucky to have him.
"I’m going to kill him," Harper says, pushing away from the desk. "I don't mean that metaphorically. I’m going to run him over with my car. Then back over his corpse just to make sure he’s dead."
"No," I say. I stare at the screen, at the evidence of my own stupidity for trusting him. "That’s too quick."
"Blair—"
"He wanted me weak," I say, turning to look at her. "He wanted me dependent. He thought I was nothing without him."
The sound of the front door opening stops our conversation. The air in the room changes. It thickens, charged with a sudden, overwhelming pressure as the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Gabriel.
He walks into the room and doesn’t even bother looking at Harper before his gaze zeroes in on me. He’s wearing a charcoal suit that fits him like it was made just for him, the top button of his shirt undone. He looks lethal. He looks exhausted.
His gray eyes sweep the room, taking everything in. He clocks the tension, the laptop, Harper’s murder-face.
"Miss Sinclair," he greets with a nod.
"Gabriel," Harper replies, standing up straighter and refusing to use her manners. It’s something I love about her, how she just gives no fucks.
Gabriel crosses the room to me. He doesn't ask if I’m okay. He steps into my personal space, his large hand cupping the back of my neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind my ear. The touch is grounding. Possessive.
"Tell me," he commands.
"He stole from me," I say. I don't stutter. I don't cry. "For two years. Ryder used my admin access to transfer over forty thousand dollars out of my account. And he emailed my biggest prospects telling them I was unstable to kill the deals."
Gabriel goes still.
It’s a terrifying kind of stillness. The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. His thumb stops moving against my skin.
"Show me," he says.
I turn the laptop toward him. He scans the statements. He reads the emails. His face reveals nothing, but the air around him radiates with violence.
"I’ll handle it," he says. His voice is a low rumble, dark and final. "He won’t have a penny left by morning. I’ll bury him so deep he’ll need a miracle to find sunlight."
"No."
Gabriel looks down at me, his brow furrowing slightly. "No?"
I stand up. I’m still in his t-shirt, barefoot, looking up at a man who could crush my ex-boyfriend with nothing more than a phone call.
But I’m not asking for a savior.
"This is mine," I tell him. "He didn't steal from you, Gabriel. He stole from me. He tried to destroy my life."
I step closer, placing my hand on his chest. I can feel his heart beating—slow, steady, powerful.
"I don't want you to fix it," I say, looking into those steel eyes. "I want to be the one who breaks him. I want to watch the light go out of his eyes when he realizes he lost to the girl he thought was nothing."
Gabriel stares at me.
For a second, I think he’s going to argue. I think he’s going to tell me to sit down and let the men handle it.
But then, his eyes darken. The pupils blow wide, swallowing the gray.
He likes it.
He likes the rage. He likes the darkness in me.
His hand tightens on my neck, pulling me closer until our bodies are pressed together.
"You want blood," he murmurs, sounding almost proud.
"I want everything," I correct. "I want his legacy. I want his pride. I want him to hurt."
Gabriel smirks. It’s a cruel, beautiful thing.
"Then we’ll take it all," he promises.
He looks over my head at Harper.
"You're the graphic designer," he says.
"I am," Harper answers, crossing her arms.
"Good. We’re going to need a rebranding strategy. And a forensic accountant. I have the accountant. You handle the image."
"Done," Harper says, grinning sharply.
Gabriel looks back at me. The heat in his gaze burns through my clothes.
“And that’s my cue to go,” Harper says, standing up. “Text me, B.” And then she’s gone.
"Go get dressed," he says, his voice dropping to a growl that makes my thighs clench. "We’re going to dinner."
"To celebrate?" I ask.
"To plan a war," he says. "And because you look far too good in my clothes, and I have about one second of restraint left before I bend you over this table and show you exactly how much I missed you today."
My breath hitches.
"It’s been more than a second," I say, clenching my thighs together as a wave of heat sweeps up between my legs.
"Blair," he growls, his eyes dropping to my mouth.
"I'll go," I say, stepping out of his reach before I do something reckless like beg him to forget about dinner.
I grab my clothes and head for the bathroom to get ready, casting one last look at the laptop screen.
Ryder Hollis made a mistake. He thought he was burying me.
He didn't realize he was planting a seed.
And now, with the devil himself by my side, I’m going to grow into his worst fucking nightmare.