Chapter 9 Jade
JADE
Phoenix gestures to the table, and I sink into the chair he's pulled out for me. The leather cushion is soft beneath me, and I try not to think about how much a single dining chair costs in a place like this.
"Wine?" he asks, already reaching for the bottle on the table.
"Sure. Thank you."
He pours with the kind of ease that comes from doing something a thousand times, the dark red liquid flowing into crystal glasses that catch the light. When he hands me mine, our fingers brush for half a second, and I feel it all the way up my arm.
"I hope you like fish," he says, settling into the chair across from me. “I should have asked what you prefer, but I realized I don't actually know."
"Fish is fine." I take a sip of wine to have something to do with my hands. It's good, probably expensive, though I wouldn't know the difference. "I'm not picky."
He's watching me with an intensity that makes me want to look away, but I force myself to hold his gaze.
He's devastatingly handsome up close. Well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders that fill out the white linen shirt in a way that shouldn't be distracting but absolutely is.
His dark hair is slightly messy, like he ran his hands through it recently.
His eyes are the kind of dark brown that looks almost black in certain light, and they haven't left my face since I sat down.
"How was the flight?" he asks.
"Long. But comfortable. Thank you for the first-class ticket."
"You're welcome." He takes a sip of his wine. "First time in California?"
"Yes. First time anywhere west of the Mississippi, actually."
"What do you think so far?"
I glance toward the windows, where the ocean churns gray and restless under the cloudy sky. "It's beautiful. Different from Boston. Warmer, even with the clouds."
"Wait until you see it on a clear day. The sunsets here are worth the price of admission."
A woman in chef's whites appears with two plates, setting them down in front of us with practiced efficiency.
The fish is perfectly grilled, surrounded by roasted vegetables that look like they belong in a magazine.
Everything is artfully arranged, beautiful in a way that makes me almost afraid to eat it.
"Thank you, Maria," Phoenix says.
Maria nods and disappears back through a door I assume leads to the kitchen.
We eat in silence for a few minutes. The food is incredible, delicate and flavorful in a way that makes my usual meals of pasta and canned sauce seem like a different species of food entirely.
I'm hyperaware of Phoenix across from me, the way he handles his fork and knife, the way he keeps glancing up to watch me when he thinks I'm not looking.
"Tell me about yourself," he says finally.
"What do you want to know?"
"Anything. Everything." He leans back slightly in his chair. "You flew across the country to meet a stranger. I'd like to know who you are."
"Shouldn't you have figured that out before you sent the check?"
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Fair point. But I want to hear it from you."
I take another sip of wine, buying time. "I'm not very interesting. I work three jobs, I write stories no one reads, and until a week ago I was drowning in debt."
"And now?"
"Now I'm sitting in a house in Malibu having dinner with someone I don't know, trying to figure out what he wants from me."
"Maybe I don't want anything."
"Everyone wants something."
Phoenix sets his fork down and looks at me directly. "That's a cynical view."
"It's a realistic one. My mother taught me that."
"Your mother sounds like she doesn't trust easily."
"She has her reasons." I don't elaborate. Don't tell him about the wealth she walked away from, the secrets she keeps, the way she's built her entire life around never depending on anyone. "But she's right. People don't give you things without expecting something in return."
"Then let me be clear." Phoenix's voice is steady, calm. "I gave you that money because I wanted to. Because you needed it and I could provide it. There are no strings attached. You don't owe me anything."
"Then why am I here?"
"Because I asked you to come. And you chose to."
The answer is so simple it throws me off. I search his face for signs of deception, manipulation, the things my mother warned me about. But all I see is that intense focus, like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve.
"What do you do?" I ask, changing the subject. "For work, I mean. You said your last name is Crawford. Are you related to the investment firm? Crawford Ventures?"
"I own it."
My hand freezes halfway to my wine glass. "You own it?"
"Started it five years ago with family money and some early investments that paid off. We focus on tech startups, mostly. Companies that are trying to do something innovative in artificial intelligence, clean energy, biotech."
He says it so casually, like owning a venture capital firm is no more remarkable than owning a coffee shop. "You must be very successful."
"Successful enough to afford to help people who need it."
There's something in the way he says it that makes heat creep up my neck. Like I'm a charity case. Like I'm one of his investments.
"I'm not a project," I say, sharper than I intended.
"I never said you were."
"You're treating me like one. Bringing me out here, setting all this up." I gesture at the table, the wine, the perfect dinner. "What is this? Some kind of Pretty Woman fantasy?"
Phoenix's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes. "That's not what this is."
"Then what is it?"
"It's dinner."
"Dinner." I laugh, and it comes out bitter. "You paid off almost four hundred thousand dollars of my debt and flew me across the country for dinner?"
"Among other things."
"What other things?"
He's quiet for a moment, studying me. "I wanted to meet you. To know you. To give you a chance to see what life could be like without drowning in debt and working yourself to exhaustion."
"Why?"
"Because you deserve better than what you have."
The words hit me harder than they should. They're almost exactly what the note said. You deserve better. But hearing him say it out loud, in that calm voice like it's a simple fact, makes something crack open in my chest.
"You don't know me well enough to know what I deserve."
"Maybe not. But I know you work hard and barely sleep. I know you're supporting your mother through a medical crisis. I know you're talented and exhausted and trying so hard to keep your head above water that you can't see there might be another way."
“There are millions of people in the world who do that. Besides, how do you know any of that?" The question comes out quiet, almost afraid.
Phoenix picks up his wine glass, takes a slow sip. "I pay attention."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're going to get tonight."
The way he says it, so final and unapologetic. It makes me angry. "You've been watching me, researching me, learning things about my life without my permission."
"Yes."
At least he's honest about it. "That's creepy."
"Perhaps." He doesn't look bothered by the accusation. "But it's also the truth. I wanted to know who you were before I made contact. I don't make investments blindly."
"There it is." I set my fork down too hard and it clatters against the plate. "That's what I am to you. An investment."
"That's not what I meant."
"Isn't it? You researched me like I'm a startup. Decided I was worth your money. Brought me out here to see if I'll perform the way you expect." My voice is rising but I can't stop it. "You can't just buy me. I'm not some company you can acquire.”
"I'm not trying to buy you," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "If I wanted to buy you, you'd know it.”
My breath catches. This close, I can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, can feel the heat radiating from his body.
"Then what do you want?" The question comes out barely a whisper.
His gaze drops to my mouth for just a second before returning to my eyes. "I want you to stay. I want you to give me a chance. And I want you to stop looking at me like I'm the enemy."
"And what do you get out of it?"
"The chance to know you."
"Why?" I push back from the table, the chair scraping against the floor. "Why me? You could have any woman you want. I'm sure you do have any woman you want. So why track down some struggling writer in Boston and decide she needs rescuing?"
Phoenix stands slowly, deliberately, and even across the table I feel the shift in energy. He's so much taller than me, broader, and the way he's looking at me makes my pulse spike.
"Because I don't want any woman." His voice is low, almost dangerous. "I want you."
He moves around the table, and I step back instinctively. My shoulders hit the wall.
"You're intelligent and stubborn and you don't give up even when you should," he continues, stopping just close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "You work yourself to the bone and you still find time to create something beautiful. You think that doesn't matter to me?"
"You don't know me." My voice shakes, and I hate that it does.
He leans in, one hand bracing against the wall beside my head. Not touching me, but close enough that I'd have to push past him to escape. His eyes are dark, intense, locked on mine.
"I know you take your coffee black. I know you write best between midnight and three AM. I know you're terrified of failure and that you haven't been on a date in eight months."
My heart hammers against my ribs. "That's not knowing me. That's stalking me."
"Maybe." His eyes are locked on mine, intense and unapologetic. "But tell me I'm wrong."
I can't. Because he's not.
“And if I'm not whatever you've built up in your head? What then?"
"Then I'll be disappointed. But you'll still have the money. You'll still be free of the debt. Nothing changes that."
I should feel relieved that he's not demanding anything, not expecting me to perform or be someone I'm not. But all I feel is anger coursing through me. He thinks money solves everything, and the worst part is that he's right. The money did solve everything.
"My mother warned me about men like you," I say. "Men who think they can control people with their wealth. Men who offer freedom but what they really want is ownership."
Phoenix's expression hardens. "I'm not trying to own you."
"Aren't you? You paid my debts. You brought me to your house. You're feeding me expensive food and wine in this expensive place, and all of it is designed to make me feel grateful. Obligated. Like I owe you something even though you say I don't."
"That's not what this is."
"Then tell me what it is. Because from where I'm standing, it looks a lot like manipulation."
The silence that follows is heavy. Phoenix doesn't move, doesn't look away, just watches me with those dark eyes that see too much.
"If that's what you think," he says finally, his voice low and controlled, "then maybe you should go back to the guest house."
"Maybe I should."
"The door isn't locked. Robert can drive you to the airport whenever you want. The money is yours regardless of whether you stay or leave."
He's giving me an out. Making it easy for me to walk away. And somehow that makes me even angrier, because I don't want it to be easy. I want him to fight, to argue, to prove that I'm wrong about him.
But he just stands there, tall and imposing and completely in control, while I'm the one falling apart.
"Fine." I turn toward the door. "Thank you for dinner."
"Jade."
I stop but don't turn around.
"I'm not trying to manipulate you or to own you. I'm trying to give you a choice. Maybe that's unfamiliar to you because you're not used to having options. But all I'm offering is time. One week to see what life could be like without the weight you've been carrying.”
I don't respond. Because part of me knows he's right, and part of me is so used to struggling that freedom does look like a trap.
I walk out of the dining room, through the hallway, out the side door that leads to the path to the guest cottage. The air outside is cold and damp with the promise of rain. The ocean crashes against the rocks below, louder now that I'm outside, angry and relentless.
Behind me, I hear the door close.
I don't look back.
The guest cottage is exactly as I left it, warm and quiet and high-end. I close the door and lean against it, my heart racing, my hands shaking.
What am I doing?
I flew across the country to meet a stranger who paid off my debts, and now I'm angry at him for trying to help me. I'm angry because he's right, because the money did give me freedom, because I don't know how to accept help without feeling like I'm giving up control.
My phone buzzes. Chloe.
How's it going? Did you meet him?
I stare at the message for a long time before typing back.
Met him. Had dinner. It's complicated.
Good complicated or bad complicated?
I don't know yet.
Do you feel safe?
I look around the cottage, at the impeccable furniture and the ocean view and I think about Phoenix standing in his dining room, watching me leave, not stopping me.
Yes. I feel safe.
Okay. Call me if that changes.
I will.
I set my phone down and walk to the window. From here, I can see the main house, lit up against the darkening sky. There's a figure in one of the windows. Too far away to see clearly, but I know it's him.
Phoenix Crawford. The man who gave me freedom and somehow made me feel more trapped than ever.
I watch him watching me through the window. Even from here, I can feel the weight of his gaze, the intensity of his focus.
He doesn't move. Doesn't look away.
Neither do I.
We stand there in our separate buildings, staring at each other across the dark pathway, and something passes between us. A challenge? A promise? Maybe a threat.
My phone buzzes.
I don't want to look at it. Don't want to break this moment. But I do anyway.
Tomorrow.
Just one word from an unknown number. But I know who it's from.
When I look back up, he's gone from the window.
But I can still feel him watching.