Unleashed (Seduced into Submission #7)

Chapter 1

By the time I pulled into the elementary school parking lot, the sun was already sinking low. I killed the engine and sat there for a moment longer than necessary, my hands resting on the steering wheel as if I needed permission to move.

Two weeks.

That was how long it had been since everything ended—and everything broke.

The money laundering was gone.

The Vincenzos were gone.

The debt, the fear, the constant vigilance, had all vanished like a bad dream you wake up sweating from.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel as I scanned the crowded lot, already full of minivans and SUVs plastered with PTA stickers and stick-figure families. Normal life. The kind I was supposed to be grateful for.

Instead, all I felt was the quiet absence of a man who had once been everywhere. Every mile marker felt like a reminder of how far I’d come... and how much I’d lost. Two weeks of safety had done nothing to quiet the ache.

I’d survived.

Unwound.

But Creed?

Creed had disappeared just as cleanly.

No calls. No texts. No chance to explain that fear had made me reckless. That love had made me stupid. That I had trusted survival more than him.

The threats were gone. The shadows had retreated. My life—on paper—had returned to something resembling normal. Morning traffic. Calendar reminders. Coffee was cooling untouched on my desk.

And yet, every day felt heavier than the one before it.

Because safety without Creed felt like punishment.

I grabbed my coat and hurried inside, the sound of children’s voices echoing down the hallway.

The auditorium doors were already open, parents shuffling in, the scent of popcorn and construction paper thick in the air.

A volunteer pressed a folded program into my hand as I slipped inside, the lights dimming just as I walked down the aisle.

Inside the auditorium, the air buzzed with the sweet chaos of parents settling in, phones raised, programs rustling.

Aunt Ruth had insisted she’d handle the costumes, arriving early with the girls so I could finish up at work.

I spotted her a few rows ahead, her silver hair catching the glow of the stage lights as she turned and smiled at me, lifting a hand in a small wave.

“They’re ready,” she mouthed as I plopped down onto the chair beside her.

My chest loosened just a little.

The curtain twitched. Music crackled to life. The children waddled onto the stage, and my heart cracked open. And then—

Two pumpkins bounced into view, round and bright, green felt leaves wobbling above their heads.

Their faces were painted with crooked smiles, their little arms sticking out from the sides as they swayed to the music, proudly offbeat.

I shared a look with Aunt Ruth and smiled too hard, the moment stretching just a little too thin, as if happiness had a shelf life and mine was about to expire.

I pressed a hand to my mouth, laughter and tears tangling in my throat.

Safe. Happy. Unaware of how close their world had come to shattering.

Their small arms stuck out awkwardly from their sides as they sang, wildly off-key and completely fearless. I laughed softly, pressing my lips together to keep the sound in. They looked ridiculous. Perfect. For a moment, I forgot everything else.

And then I heard it.

A low, familiar laugh—quiet, unguarded, unmistakable. The sound cut through the room, low and intimate, and my chest reacted before my mind did.

I hadn’t heard that sound in weeks. Not since before everything fell apart.

I turned slowly, afraid that if I moved too fast, the moment would vanish.

He sat a few rows behind me, off to the right, his head tipped back just slightly as he watched the stage. The corner of his mouth curved in a way I knew by heart. Not the controlled smile he wore in meetings. This was real.

Creed.

My breath caught so hard it hurt, hope and longing tangled in my chest. He’d come. He had kept his promise to the girls.

For a reckless second, I wondered if he’d come looking for me.

My fingers curled in my lap as a thousand thoughts crashed through me at once. Maybe after the show. Maybe just a few minutes. Enough time to explain. To apologize. To tell him how wrong I’d been.

I waited, longer than was reasonable, for his attention to shift. Surely, he felt me. Surely, he knew where I was sitting.

But he never looked at me.

His attention stayed on the stage, on the pumpkins singing their hearts out, on everything except the woman who had broken his trust. I told myself he was just focused on the stage. That it didn’t mean anything yet.

But when the final song ended and applause filled the room, he stood with the kind of timing that felt deliberate, like he’d measured exactly how much distance he could put between us without ever acknowledging me.

For one cruel second, I thought he might hesitate. Instead, he left before I could gather the courage to follow.

I stayed frozen, clapping on instinct, my eyes burning as the curtain fell.

He hadn’t come for me.

He came for them.

It was proof that he still cared. Just not enough to stay.

I didn’t know it then, but that quiet restraint would hurt more than anything he could have said.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING ARRIVED sharp and unforgiving.

There was no space for grief or second-guessing. Just coffee cooling on my desk, unread emails stacking up, and the familiar rhythm of a life that had resumed as if nothing had ever threatened to destroy it.

I hadn’t slept much. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard Creed’s laughter—soft, real—followed by the echo of his absence.

By the time I stepped into the executive conference room, I had already rehearsed half a dozen versions of what I might say when I saw him. None of them survived the weight of daylight.

The room was all glass and polish, a space designed for power and precision.

The long table gleamed beneath recessed lighting, polished and pristine.

I took my seat. Executives filed in, voices low, folders opening, chairs sliding back.

I aligned my notebook again, then stilled my hands when I realized I was doing it for the third time.

Then the door opened.

The air shifted, not dramatically, just enough to be felt by anyone paying attention.

Dark suit. Immaculate. Controlled. The kind of man who didn’t command a room by speaking. He did it by existing in it.

Conversations dipped. Creed didn’t scan the room. Didn’t need to. He already knew who was there.

He took his seat at the head of the table, next to mine and close enough that I could see the faint shadow along his jaw, the disciplined calm in his expression.

I was in his line of sight and completely irrelevant. Surely there will be a glance. A flicker. Something.

He didn’t look at me. Not once.

His focus went to the agenda, to the financials, to anything that wasn’t the woman he had once sworn to protect.

“Let’s begin,” he said, voice even, detached. The same voice that had once wrapped around me in the dark and promised safety. Now it offered structure. Distance.

The meeting unfolded in clipped voices and orderly turns. His voice threaded through the room with calm authority, and I hated how easily it still found me.

I listened. I spoke when required. I kept my expression neutral, my posture composed. Creed treated me like any other executive. No flicker of recognition. No acknowledgment of the history pressed between us like a fault line. It was discipline, not cruelty.

That made it worse.

Yet, I focused on the agenda, forcing my breathing into something steady. Professional. Composed. That was what he wanted. That was what he was giving.

And it hurt more than anger ever could.

When my turn came, I delivered my report without hesitation. Revenue. Timelines. Risk mitigation. I focused on the numbers because they didn’t look back at me.

Across the table, Creed listened as if I were any other executive. Part of me wanted him to interrupt. To challenge me. Anything but this.

Once my report was complete, I sat straighter, bracing for something that never came. Instead, Creed nodded once, impersonal, and moved on.

It wasn’t dismissal. It was precision.

Decisions were made. Action items assigned. When the meeting adjourned, chairs shifted, low conversations resumed. Creed stood immediately, collecting his folder.

I knew the moment I said his name that I was crossing a line he’d carefully drawn. “Creed.”

He paused, just long enough to turn slightly, but never fully facing me.

“Yes, Peyton?” Polite. Neutral. Controlled.

The sound of my name felt foreign now.

“Could we talk?” I asked quietly.

“If this concerns business,” he replied, already stepping back, “schedule time through my assistant.”

It wasn’t rejection. It was removal.

And then he walked out.

The room felt smaller after he left, as if something essential had been removed. I remained seated long after everyone left, staring at my reflection in the glass tabletop. I had faced men who wanted to ruin me. I had survived threats, leverage, fear sharpened into weapons.

But this—this silence—was something else entirely.

I had kept secrets to protect him.

And in doing so, I had lost him.

Creed hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t accused or demanded. He had simply closed the door and left me on the other side of it.

I was safe.

But safety had never felt so lonely.

* * *

I BARELY MADE IT BACK to my office before everything I’d been holding together started to slip.

I shut the door behind me, pressed my forehead briefly against the cool wood, and exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

“Okay,” Mavis said gently. “That look right there... that’s not a ‘productive meeting’ look.”

Mavis sat on my couch like she paid rent—legs crossed, phone in hand, perfectly composed. Dixie stood near the window, coffee cup balanced in her palm, already watching me with that soft-eyed concern she saved for moments that mattered.

“He ignored me,” I said, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.

Dixie winced. “Damn.”

Mavis tilted her head. “Ignored-you ignored-you, or professional-wall ignored-you?”

“Professional. Controlled. Like I’m just... someone who works here.”

Dixie tilted her head. “That bad, huh?”

I dropped my notebook onto a chair and exhaled. “Did you two plan this?”

Mavis glanced up then, unbothered. “We call it being proactive.”

“And supportive,” Dixie added.

I shook my head, my chest tightening now that I wasn’t alone. “He barely looked at me.”

Mavis nodded once. “Sit.”

I didn’t argue. I walked behind my desk and sank into my chair like my body had been waiting for permission to give out.

“What was the temperature of the room?” Dixie asked.

“Arctic! He barely acknowledged me. Like I’m just... another executive.”

Mavis clicked her tongue. “That man does not do ‘just.’ If he’s icing you out, it’s because he’s hurt.”

“That doesn’t make it hurt less,” I snapped, then sighed. “I know I screwed up.”

Dixie stepped closer. “Yes, but Peyton, the Vincenzo threat is over.”

“I know,” I said quietly. “They’re gone.”

“Good,” Mavis said firmly. “Because I was not prepared to keep Googling Italian crime families.”

Despite myself, I let out a weak laugh.

Dixie smiled. “You and the girls are safe. That matters.”

“It does,” I agreed. “I’m grateful. I just didn’t expect safety to feel so... empty.”

Mavis leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Because it cost you Creed.”

My throat tightened. “I didn’t trust him.”

“No,” Mavis corrected. “You tried to control fear instead of surrendering to love.”

Dixie winced. “Damn.”

“I kept secrets,” I whispered. “I thought I was protecting him.”

“And meanwhile ...,” Dixie began, “... he paid off a mob debt like it was a utility bill.”

Mavis snapped her fingers. “Through the Barone family. I stalked that family online. Fucking billionaires. That’s not small, Peyton. That’s power. That’s commitment.”

“I didn’t ask Creed to do that.”

“I know,” Mavis said softly. “That’s why it shattered him.”

Silence stretched between us.

Then Dixie spoke. “He still showed up for the girls.”

I nodded. “He came to their school play.”

Mavis smiled, satisfied. “Of course he did.”

“He laughed,” I added, my voice cracking. “I heard him before I saw him.”

Dixie’s expression softened. “Oh, Peyton...”

“And then he left before I could speak to him.”

Mavis leaned back. “That wasn’t cruelty. That was restraint.”

“I don’t know if I can fix this,” I admitted. “Forgiveness doesn’t come easy to him.”

“No,” Mavis said. “Because trust is sacred to men like Creed.”

Dixie crossed her arms. “But they don’t walk away forever.”

Mavis pointed at me. “You don’t chase him. You don’t corner him. You live in truth. Fully. Transparently.”

“And you wait,” Dixie added. “Even when it hurts.”

I swallowed. “What if waiting isn’t enough?”

Mavis stood, smoothing her jacket like a woman concluding a meeting. “Then you’ll know you did everything right this time.”

I leaned back, exhaustion settling in, but so did something steadier.

Resolve.

“Also,” Dixie added with a grin, “we are both deeply impressed.”

“With what?” I asked.

Mavis didn’t hesitate. “Your ability to resist. Because that man is sinfully delicious.”

Dixie nodded. “She’s right. I don’t know if I could hold out this long.”

I shook my head at them and gave a weak smile. “You both are impossible.”

“And correct,” Mavis added. “Always.”

They stayed with me a little longer, grounding me, pulling me back from the ledge.

Creed was gone.

But the lesson wasn’t.

And if patience was the price of redemption...

I would pay it.