Chapter Twenty-Nine
Bianca
I’m buried in mountains of work at Safe House, surrounded by piles of paperwork and spreadsheets, going over what feels like the final million details for the fundraiser dinner. All the chaos culminates tomorrow night, in one massive final push. It’s been days and days and nights and nights of unending work, one relentless deadline after another. But now, finally, Alex and I are frantically working through the last-minute logistics—securing all the auction items, finalizing each of the table arrangements, and making sure the caterer is absolutely clear that we need vegetarian options that don’t taste like dirt. My brain feels like it’s melting, a puddle of exhaustion, but there’s a strange satisfaction in this kind of mental and physical weariness. I’m doing it. I’m actually pulling this off, and all without my brother’s dirty money. I’m dizzy from exhaustion. It should feel like a victory, but all I feel is bone-deep tiredness. My body is running on fumes, and if I stop, even for a second, I might collapse from the sheer weight of it all. I’m pushing myself to the breaking point, and I know it, and I can’t stop.
That’s when Iris, one of the Safe House employees, knocks on my office door. “Bianca?” she says, sounding hesitant and a little apologetic. “Uh, there’s someone here to see you.”
I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. I can’t handle one more thing tonight. “Tell them to come back later. I’m drowning,” I say, keeping my voice as steady as I can, which is not very steady at all.
“He, uh, didn’t give his name,” Iris replies, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other, like she’s trying to figure out how to deliver a piece of news she doesn’t quite understand herself. “But he, um, looks like a hot caveman in a suit who just came out of the barbershop.”
That makes both Alex and I look up in perfect sync. Our heads snap toward each other, eyes wide with surprise and sudden energy, and at the same time, we say:
“I have got to see this.”
We both practically race out of my office, and when I step into the main area, I freeze. Standing there, looking like a goddamn fever dream, is Tank.
Only it’s not the Tank I’m used to.
No flannel.
No leather.
No flour-covered apron.
Instead, he’s dressed in a crisp button-down shirt, the top button rebelliously undone, a tie hanging nonchalantly loose around his neck, and a suit jacket thrown on with a casual elegance that somehow still makes him look untamed and dangerous. He looks as if he’s stepped out of an alternate reality where outlaws attend board meetings. In his enormous, battle-worn hands, he holds an unexpected accessory—a bouquet of bright, almost comical roses.
I blink. Once. Twice.
Then, incredulously, I hear my voice cut through the din: “What the fuck is this about?”
Tank’s lips quirk up in that infuriating, cocky way of his, hinting at the mischief behind his blue eyes, and he thrusts the roses toward me, awkward yet determined, like some rough-edged antihero who clearly has no idea how to present flowers. And knowing him, he probably doesn’t. From everything about this wild scene, it looks very much like this might actually be the first time in his entire life he’s held a bouquet of roses.
“It’s about you.”
My stomach tightens. “What?”
Tank’s eyes lock on mine, and suddenly the entire room feels too small, too hot, too charged. “Are you in the middle of something?”
I exhale sharply. “A million things, but—”
Tank disregards my weak protest, looking past me at Alex with an absolute focus that sends a thrill racing down my spine. “Take care of all that,” he commands, nodding toward the heaps of paperwork and preparations. “Your boss is going to be busy.”
Alex, the traitor, nods enthusiastically like she’s just been waiting for this moment. “Oh, absolutely. Go. Now.”
I scowl at her. She winks at me.
Tank steps closer, claiming the space and my attention with a gravity that’s impossible to ignore. His voice drops, low and resolute, each word cutting through my fatigue. “You’ve been working real fucking hard for real fucking long. It’s time you had a break. It’s time someone treated you right. Come with me.”
I should tell Tank no; I should have already shouted it at him. My stubborn pride wants nothing more than to refuse him. I have an impossible amount of work left to do, and there's still so much on the line. An entire mountain of responsibilities towers over me, and a single misstep will send it crashing down. But his words, low and commanding, echo in my head: It's time someone treated you right. It's time you had a break. I have a million reasons not to go.
But I don’t say no.
I let him take my hand, fingers warm and sure around mine. I let him lead me outside, the weight of everything falling further away with each step. Even the darkness is liberating, the night sky stretching wide above—an endless canvas of possibilities. And there, waiting for us like something from a dream or a perfectly wild nightmare, is a motorcycle that practically promises freedom.
I stop short, staring at it, all the questions in my head tumbling out at once. “What’s this about?”
Tank only grins with infuriating confidence, wicked and knowing, as if he’s guessed my every doubt. He hands me a helmet, his expression leaving no room for argument. “No questions. Just hop on.”
My heart pounds in my chest, a drumbeat of exhilaration and fear of the unknown, each thud daring me to take the plunge. The night air is crisp against my face, charged with a restless, electric energy. The world feels too big, too uncertain, too thrilling—and somehow, exactly what I need. I hop on.
He does, too, settling in front of me, solid and reassuring. His presence radiates heat, a protective barrier against everything. Then I put my hands on his hips, feel the engine roar to life, vibrating with raw power between my legs. Wind tangles in my hair as we take off, and just like that, I let go.