Chapter 5
Saif told himself to let her go.
She was already halfway through the door—nearly out of his life again. Just like before.
All he had to do was stand still.
But he couldn’t.
Not after the fleeting look of panic in her eyes. Not after the flash of something—something he didn’t want to name—when she’d glanced back at him. It had struck him like a punch to the gut, and his body had responded before his brain could stop it.
Had it been regret? Longing? A spark of hope?
Or was he just a fool still caught in the wreckage she’d left behind?
He grit his teeth, furious with himself for caring. For wondering. For wanting.
He should hate her. He did hate her.
But then she’d looked up—wet, pale, exhausted—and squared her shoulders with that same stubborn tilt of her chin. The move was so familiar it nearly undid him.
She looked ready to shatter, but still… she faced him.
That defiance sparked something deep inside him.
No, he thought. Not this time.
She didn’t get to walk away again.
Not after what her brother had done. Not after what she had done.
This time, he would control the ending.
He folded his arms, schooling his features into cold detachment as he waited for her to turn.
And when those tired, wary hazel eyes finally met his, he told himself to feel nothing.
She’s a liar. A coward. A woman who took everything—his trust, his time, his heart—and disappeared without explanation.
Now it was his turn.
“Where are you working now?”
He already knew, of course. He’d had the answer before she even stepped into the elevator. He knew about her new apartment, too. It wasn’t in the worst part of the city, but it wasn’t safe either. Not for a woman like her.
Jemma blinked, startled by the question. “What does it matter?” she snapped, lifting that stubborn chin another inch.
“It matters,” he replied coolly, taking a step toward her. “Because I want to know when I’ll be paid for the damages.”
Another step.
“It matters,” his voice dropped lower, darker, “because I want to know if you’ll tell me the truth.”
Her eyes flared.
“I’ve always told you the truth,” she said.
He stared at her—really stared.
And saw the lie.
Not the outright kind. It wasn’t her words that betrayed her. It was her face.
Fear. Shame. A flicker of panic she couldn’t mask.
She was hiding something.
He’d spent years in rooms full of liars—CEOs, politicians, negotiators—and he could read a shift in breath like a headline.
But this wasn’t about business.
He knew her.
Knew what made her laugh. What made her arch beneath him. What made her terrified.
And right now?
She was terrified.
Good.
“That’s a lie,” he said softly. “And we both know it.”
His gaze swept over her again, noting what he’d been trying to ignore since she walked in.
The weight loss. The paleness. Her blouse clinging to her ribs.
Her skirt hanging loose on her hips. Her breasts looked fuller—but it only emphasized how thin the rest of her had become.
Her cheeks were hollow. She looked brittle. Worn.
Unwell.
She looked like she’d been drowning for a while now.
“I work for Sinstack Designs,” she said finally, her voice raw. “It’s owned by Overlock Corporation. Mark Sinstack runs it through a licensing deal, but he’s still in control of—”
She stopped.
He saw the realization bloom in her eyes just before her knees nearly buckled.
“No,” she whispered, taking a shaky step back, wet hair slapping against her face. “You… no.”
“Yes,” he said, voice smooth and final.
He reached out and tucked the wet strand of hair behind her ear, letting his fingertips brush her cheek. She flinched.
“I own fifty point three percent of Overlock Corporation,” he told her. “Which means…”
He let the silence hang between them.
“You work for me,” he finished, stepping into her space again.
The words hit her like a gut punch. He could see it in her face—the fear, the calculation, the dawning horror.
She wasn’t worried about the graffiti anymore.
She was worried about something else. Something deeper. Something she’d buried.
And now she was realizing just how exposed she was.
If he could dig this up… what else would he find?