Chapter 10 Phoenix
PHOENIX
She's angry.
Good.
I watch through the window as Jade storms down the pathway to the guest cottage, her shoulders rigid, her pace quick. The motion-sensor lights illuminate her as she passes, and even from here I can see the tension in every line of her body.
The cottage door slams hard enough that I hear it over the sound of the ocean.
I should feel guilty. Should regret the way I stood over her, the way I admitted to watching her, confirming every warning her mother ever gave her about men like me.
I don't.
I pour myself another whiskey and lean against the window frame, watching the lights flicker on in the cottage. Living room first, then the bedroom. She's moving through the space, probably trying to calm down, trying to decide if she's staying or leaving.
She's not leaving.
Not because I won't let her. But because she doesn't want to.
I saw it in her eyes when I had her trapped, when I was close enough to feel her breath quicken, to see her pupils dilate. She was angry, yes. Terrified, maybe. But she was also drawn to me in a way that scared her more than anything I actually said.
She felt it too. This pull between us. This inevitability.
My phone buzzes on the desk. Marcus again. The seventh call today. I silence it without looking and take a drink.
The Singapore deal can wait. Everything can wait.
She's here. In my house. Close enough that I could walk down that pathway right now and finish what we started in the dining room.
I won't. Not tonight.
But soon.
I've been patient for so long. Years of watching her from a distance, learning everything about her, waiting for the right moment to make contact. The photograph I stole when I was ten years old is still in my desk drawer, edges worn from how many times I've looked at it over the years.
Jade Catalano. The girl who became an obsession before I was old enough to understand what that meant.
And now she's here, sleeping in my guest cottage, probably texting her friend about what a mistake this was. Probably planning to leave in the morning.
Let her plan.
I've given her the illusion of choice, the illusion of freedom. The unlocked doors, the offer to drive her to the airport whenever she wants, the promise that the money has no strings attached.
All of it is true.
And all of it is a lie.
Because the truth is, I won't let her go.
I'm not proud of it. But I'm not ashamed either.
I want her. I've wanted her for so long that the wanting has become part of who I am. And now that she's here, the idea of letting her slip away is unbearable.
The lights in the cottage bedroom go off.
She's going to sleep. Or trying to.
I wonder if she'll actually manage it. If she'll lie there in that expensive bed, in those high thread count sheets, and think about me the way I've been thinking about her.
I wonder if she'll replay how I stared at her. If she'll remember the way her breath caught when I leaned in close. If she felt what I felt in that moment when our faces were inches apart and every instinct I had screamed at me to close the distance and kiss her.
I didn't.
Control is everything. If I'd kissed her tonight, if I'd given in to what I wanted, she would have run. Would have confirmed every fear her mother planted in her head about rich men who take what they want.
So I gave her space. Let her walk away. Let her think she has power in this situation.
But make no mistake. She's mine.
She just doesn't know it yet.
I finish my whiskey and pour another. The bottle is half empty now. I should stop, should go to bed, should let tonight end so tomorrow can begin.
Instead, I open my laptop and navigate to her blog.
No new posts yet. But she'll write something soon. She always does when she's processing emotions. She'll pour her confusion and anger into words, publish them where she thinks no one is paying attention, and I'll read every single one.
I've been reading her words for years. Watching her document her struggles, her dreams, her fears. Learning the rhythms of her thoughts.
Some might call it stalking.
I call it research.
I needed to know her before I made contact. Needed to understand what makes her tick, what she needs, and what she's afraid of. You don't invest hundreds of thousands of dollars without due diligence.
And Jade Catalano is the best investment I've ever made.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's not Marcus but a notification from the security system. Motion detected on the guest cottage pathway.
Jade is outside.
She's wearing the same dress from dinner, no jacket despite the cold. Her arms are wrapped around herself as she walks down the pathway toward the cliff's edge where a bench sits overlooking the ocean.
What is she doing?
My hand is on the door handle before I stop myself.
Let her go. Let her have this moment. She needs space to think, to process, to decide if she's staying or running.
But I watch. Of course I watch.
She sits on the bench, and even from here I can see her shoulders shaking. She's crying or trying not to cry. The wind whips her hair around her face, and she doesn't bother to push it back.
Something in my chest tightens.
I did this to her. I brought her here and made her feel things she didn't want to feel. Made her angry and confused and overwhelmed.
I should feel guilty.
I don't.
Because she came despite everything her mother and her friends ever said. She came despite her better judgment.
That means something. She must have felt it too.
She stays on the bench for twenty minutes, her dark hair whipping in the wind, her arms wrapped around herself against the cold.
The ocean crashes against the rocks below, violent and relentless, and she just sits there staring at the water.
When she finally stands, her movements are slow, reluctant.
She walks back to the cottage with her head down, and I track every step until she disappears inside.
The lights flicker on in the living room, casting warm yellow rectangles across the pathway. A few minutes later, the bedroom light joins them. Then both go dark.
Only then do I turn away from the window.
My office feels cavernous now, the expensive furniture and custom bookshelves suddenly meaningless. The whiskey tastes like ash in my mouth. Everything in this house that usually brings me satisfaction feels hollow when she's not in it.
Tomorrow I'll show her what life could be like here. I'll be charming and attentive, careful not to push too hard. I'll give her the space she needs to breathe while making sure she never forgets I'm here. I'll prove that accepting my help doesn't mean surrendering her independence.
And if charm doesn't work, I'll find another approach. Because one way or another, Jade Catalano is not leaving at the end of this week. She's not leaving at all.
I close my laptop and walk to my bedroom. The floor-to-ceiling windows here face the ocean and the guest cottage beyond, the glass cool against my palm when I brace my hand against it. I can see a single light still on.
She's awake.
Probably replaying our argument, analyzing every word I said, trying to categorize me as either dangerous or merely intense.
The answer is both.
I'm dangerous because I know exactly what I want and I'll do whatever it takes to get it. I'm intense because I've been waiting for this moment for years, and now that it's here, nothing will stand in my way.
She's mine.
Mine to protect and to claim.
The light in the cottage finally goes off.
Tomorrow I'll show her I can be what she needs. Gentle, considerate, respectful of her boundaries.
Tonight, though, in the privacy of my own thoughts, I can admit the truth.
I don't give fuck about her boundaries. I want to obliterate them.
I want her to need me the way I need her. I want her to crave my presence the way I crave hers.
Soon enough, she'll realize the truth: she’s already mine and she has been as soon as she cashed that check.
The only question now is how long it takes her to admit it.