Chapter 25 Jade
JADE
Istand frozen in the middle of the cabin, watching Phoenix disappear into the bathroom.
The flannel shirt smells like cedar and something faintly chemical. It’s new, never worn. He bought these clothes for me. Had them brought up here. Planned all of this before the dinner, before I found out the truth, before everything fell apart.
What was his original plan? Sweep me away to his romantic mountain cabin after a successful investor dinner? Play the devoted boyfriend until I was too deep to climb out?
The thought makes me sick.
But not as sick as the realization that some part of me might have fallen for it.
The bathroom door opens. Phoenix emerges and he looks almost normal.
He moves to the kitchenette without looking at me, opening the mini fridge and pulling out a carton of eggs. I watch him crack of shells, sizzle the butter, and listen to the sound of the spatula scraping against the pan.
"I'm making eggs," he says. "You should eat something."
"I'm not hungry."
As if on cue, my stomach growls loudly.
Phoenix glances over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised.
"I'm not hungry," I repeat through gritted teeth.
He shrugs and turns back to the stove. "Suit yourself."
The smell hits me a moment later. Butter and eggs and toast browning in a second pan. My stomach clenches painfully. I haven't eaten since—when? A few bites at the dinner, before everything went to hell. That was hours ago.
I watch him plate the food into two portions. He sets one plate on the small table near the kitchenette and takes the other to the sofa, settling in like he hasn't a care in the world.
He eats slowly, methodically, never looking directly at me. But I can feel him tracking me out of the corner of his eye.
The plate on the table sits there, waiting for me to break.
Steam rises from the eggs. The toast is golden brown, glistening with butter. My mouth waters despite my best efforts to ignore it.
Don't give him the satisfaction, I tell myself.
But my body has other ideas. My feet carry me toward the table, and I find myself standing there, staring down at the plate like it's a trap designed specifically for me.
It probably is.
I sit anyway.
The first bite is humiliating, an admission of weakness I can't take back. By the third, I've stopped caring about pride and started shoveling food into my mouth like I haven't eaten in days.
I refuse to look at him or acknowledge his presence in any way. I don't thank him.
But I clean the plate.
When I'm done, I push it away and stare at the wall. My cheeks burn with shame at how quickly I caved. I couldn't even hold out for one meal, couldn't maintain the smallest act of defiance against him.
What chance do I have of surviving seven days?
Phoenix rises from the sofa and takes both plates to the sink. He washes with soap and water, dries them and puts them away.
I watch him move through the small space with an efficiency that suggests he's done this a thousand times before.
Stop it, I tell myself. He's not a serial killer. He's just an asshole.
But the distinction feels dangerously thin right now.
"It's late," Phoenix says, breaking the silence. "We should sleep."
"I'm not tired."
Another lie. My body is screaming for rest. The adrenaline that carried me through the dinner, the confrontation, and the drive has completely drained away, leaving nothing but bone-deep exhaustion in its wake.
Phoenix doesn't argue. He just crosses to the bed, pulls back the thick quilt, and slides underneath. He's still fully clothed in his t-shirt and sweats.
He reaches over and clicks off the lamp on his side of the bed, plunging the cabin into darkness broken only by the faint glow of moonlight through the single window.
"There's room," he says, his voice low and rough, disembodied in the dark. "Or you can take the sofa. Your choice."
I look at the sofa. It's more like a loveseat, barely room for two, with worn cushions. I'd have to curl into a ball to fit, and even then my feet would hang off the end.
I look at the bed, where Phoenix lies as a shadow against the pillows. His large body takes up far less space than it should, and the other side of the mattress stretches empty beside him, waiting for me to surrender.
I look back at the sofa.
Pride. Dignity. Self-respect. The words feel meaningless when weighed against the ache in my bones.
"I hate you," I say into the darkness.
"I know."
"This doesn't mean anything."
"I know."
"If you touch me, I'll kill you."
A pause, and then his voice comes back soft and almost amused. "I know."
I cross to the bed on legs that feel like lead. The mattress dips as I climb in, and I stay as far to the edge as physically possible without tumbling onto the floor. I turn my back to him and curl into myself.
The quilt settles over me, warm and soft, smelling like cedar and woodsmoke and something else underneath it all—something that might be him.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to will myself to sleep, but it doesn't work.
I can feel him behind me. He’s not touching me, he’s kept his word about that, at least. But he’s undeniably present.
The heat of his body radiates across the mattress toward me.
I can hear him breathing in that slow, steady rhythm, and I'm acutely aware of the weight of him, the sheer physical mass that makes the bed feel so much smaller than it is.
The silence between us is oppressive, heavy with everything we're not saying.
I think about the dinner and the emerald dress and the way he looked at me when I walked out of the guest house, like I was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
I think about the beach and the way he held me after I confronted him about his parents, the crack in his voice when he swore he didn't know the truth.
I think about all the moments between us: the touches, the looks, the way my heart raced every time he walked into a room.
I was starting to fall for him despite my mother's warnings and my own better judgment.
Was any of it real? Or was I just a convenient solution to a business problem, a prop to be positioned and displayed and discarded once I'd served my purpose?
The thoughts spiral through my mind, chasing each other in endless circles. I should be planning my escape right now. I should be figuring out how to get my phone back, how to signal for help, how to get out of this cabin and away from this man who has turned my life upside down.
Instead, I'm lying in his bed, wearing his clothes, my stomach full of food he made for me.
Pathetic, Mom’s voice whispers in my head. This is exactly how it starts.
But Mom isn't here. No one is here except me and Phoenix and the darkness and the trees pressing close outside the window.
I feel the mattress shift slightly as he adjusts his position, still not touching me, still keeping that careful distance he promised.
"Jade." His voice is barely a murmur.
I don't answer.
"I know you're awake."
I stay silent, refusing to give him even that small acknowledgment.
A long pause stretches between us before he speaks again. "I'm sorry. For all of it. For the way this happened."
The words hang in the air. It’s an apology, the first real one he's offered since this nightmare began.
I should respond. I should tell him that sorry isn't enough, that nothing he says can fix what he's done, that I'll never forgive him for any of this.
Instead, I say nothing. I let the silence stretch on and on, let him wonder whether I heard him or whether I care.
Eventually, his breathing slows and deepens. He's asleep, or at least pretending to be.
I lie awake for what feels like hours, staring at the dark wall in front of me while I feel the warmth of him radiating against my back.
And I hate myself for the traitorous part of me that wants to roll over, forget everything that happened and lose myself in him again. Because even after everything he's done, even knowing what I know now, some broken piece of me still wants him.
Seven days. I just have to make it seven days.
But lying here in the dark with his warmth seeping into my skin, I'm not sure I'll even make it until tomorrow.