Chapter 3
three
. . .
Wren
I've never been in a car this expensive.
The leather seat beneath me probably costs more than my rent, and I'm terrified I'll somehow damage it just by sitting here. My hands are still shaking—from the confrontation at the bar, from the way Calvin defended me, from the way he called me his little girl’ in front of all those people, from the way he's looking at me now in the dim lighting of the limo.
Like I'm something precious. Something he wants to devour. No one has ever looked at me like that.
"You're safe now," he says, his voice rumbling in the quiet space between us. He's massive, taking up so much room with his broad shoulders and long legs. The suit he's wearing fits him perfectly, like it was molded to his body. It probably was.
I nod, not trusting my voice yet. The partition between us and the driver is closed, creating this bubble where only we exist. Outside, the city lights blur as we glide through traffic, heading... where exactly?
"Where are we going?" I finally ask, my voice small.
"I thought you might be hungry." Calvin doesn't ask if I am. He just assumes, takes control. "I know a place that's still serving at this hour."
My stomach chooses that moment to growl embarrassingly loud. I've been on my feet for twelve hours straight, running between tables, too busy for a proper break. Calvin's lips curve into a satisfied smile.
"When was the last time you ate, little bird?"
The nickname makes something flutter in my chest. "Breakfast," I admit. "Just some toast."
His jaw tightens, and for a second, I think he's angry with me. But then he reaches out, his large hand engulfing mine, and the strangest thing happens—I exhale. Like I've been holding my breath for years and can finally let it go.
"Tell me about your life, Wren," he says, his thumb stroking across my knuckles. "Tell me everything."
No one's ever asked me that before, not really. People don't care about the girl refilling their drinks or taking their orders. I'm background noise to them, a necessary function but not a person. Calvin is looking at me like I'm the only thing that matters.
"There's not much to tell," I start, but he shakes his head.
"Don't do that. Don't make yourself small."
The rebuke is gentle but firm, and it makes me sit up straighter. "Sorry—I mean—it's just habit, I guess."
"Break it," he says simply. "For me."
And just like that, I want to. I want to do anything he asks when he looks at me with those intense eyes.
"I work three jobs," I tell him. "The gala where we met, the bar you just... came to, and mornings at a coffee shop downtown. I'm trying to save enough to go back to school, but it's slow going."
Calvin's hand shifts from mine to my thigh. The touch is possessive, warm through the thin material of my work pants. My breath catches. I should move away. I should be offended or scared. Instead, I find myself fighting the urge to lean into his touch.
"Your parents?" he asks.
"Car accident. Five years ago." The familiar pain resurfaces, duller now but never gone. "They didn't have much insurance. What little they had went to medical bills and the funeral."
His hand tightens on my thigh, not painfully, but firmly. Claiming. "You've been alone since then."
It's not a question, but I nod anyway. "I had to drop out of college. Couldn't afford it anymore. I still have the loans, though." I try to laugh, but it comes out brittle.
"What were you studying?"
"Graphic design. I was good at it, too." For once, I say it without downplaying my talents. Something about Calvin makes me want to be honest about everything.
"So smart," he murmurs, and the praise washes over me like warm honey. "Such a good girl, working so hard all alone."
Good girl. The words sink into my skin, light me up from within. I've never been called that before, not as an adult. It should sound condescending, but from Calvin's lips, it feels like a caress.
His hand moves higher on my thigh, fingers stroking small circles. My body responds in ways I don't understand, an ache blooming between my legs. I shift in the seat, confused by my own reaction.
"Your apartment?" he prompts.
"It's tiny. In Parkdale." The worst area of the city, but all I can afford. "I had a roommate until recently, but she moved in with her boyfriend. I've been picking up extra shifts to cover her half of the rent."
Calvin's free hand curls into a fist on his knee, the only sign of his displeasure. "Do you feel safe there?"
The question startles me. No one's asked me that before either. Do I feel safe? "Not really," I admit. "The lock on the main door is broken. My neighbor plays music until 3 AM. There was a break-in on my floor last month."
"That ends tonight," he says with such certainty that I almost believe him. "You're not staying there anymore."
I blink at him. "What do you mean?"
"I mean exactly what I said." His hand slides higher, resting now at the juncture where my thigh meets my hip. Heat radiates from his palm. "No more shitty apartment. No more triple shifts. No more worrying about paying bills."
My heart races. "I don't understand."
Calvin leans closer, his cologne—something expensive and masculine—enveloping me. "I'll take care of you, Wren. I'll keep you safe. All you have to do is let me."
There's a weight to his words, a promise that goes beyond the surface. I should be terrified. I should be scrambling for the door handle, demanding to be let out. This man is a stranger. A powerful, wealthy stranger who's suggesting... what, exactly? That he become my sugar daddy? My protector?
But I'm not scared. For the first time in five years, sitting in this limo with Calvin's hand branding me through my clothes, I feel completely, utterly safe.
"Why me?" I whisper.
His eyes darken. "Because the moment you spilled champagne on me, I knew you were mine." He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Like the sky is blue, water is wet, and I belong to Calvin Mercer.
The ache between my legs intensifies, and I squeeze my thighs together, trapping his hand. He notices—of course he does—and a slow, predatory smile spreads across his face.
"Does that scare you, little bird?" he asks, his voice dropping lower.
"Yes," I admit. Then, surprising myself: "And no."
His hand moves again, just slightly, his thumb brushing dangerously close to the seam of my pants. My breath hitches. Something is happening to me, something new and frightening and exhilarating all at once.
"Good girl," he says again, and this time I can't suppress the small sound that escapes my throat. "So honest for me."
The limo slows, and Calvin reluctantly withdraws his hand. I feel the loss immediately, like he's taken his warmth with him.
"We're here," he says, nodding toward the window.
I look out to see not a restaurant, but what appears to be a luxury high-rise, its top floors disappearing into the night sky.
"This isn't a restaurant," I say, confusion mixing with a hint of apprehension.
Calvin's smile is gentle but leaves no room for argument. "I have a better idea. Dinner at my place. Where I can take care of you properly."
I should say no. I should insist on a public place. I should remember everything I've ever been warned about going to a strange man's home.
But Calvin doesn't feel strange. He feels inevitable.
As the driver opens the door and Calvin extends his hand to help me out, I make my choice. I place my hand in his and step out of the limo, into whatever future he's planning for us.
Because really what the hell do I have to lose?