Chapter 11
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Mason
What the actual fuck? Is this dude really trying to run off with Harper?
My Harper?
I don’t know what the fuck he said to her, but I see the fearful look in Harper’s eyes when she glances back over her shoulder at me.
It guts me. How can she be afraid of me like that?
This guy doesn't know who he's messing with. I will burn down the entire world to get Harper back. I immediately place a call and get a contact to find out who the fuck this Tyler is and where he's staying. And God help him when I find him.
The phone barely rings once before my contact answers. I bark out orders, my voice low and dangerous. "I need everything on Tyler Morris. Now."
As I wait for the information, my mind races. I can still see Harper's face, the way she looked at me with those wide, frightened eyes. It's like a dagger twisting in my chest. I've protected her, given her everything. How dare this nobody swoop in and try to take her away?
My fingers drum against the steering wheel of the rented Bentley, the leather creaking under my grip. The streets of Paris blur past, quaint shops and manicured lawns that usually soothe me now just fuel my rage.
My phone buzzes. I snatch it up, drinking in every detail about Tyler fucking Morris. Trust fund kid turned starving artist. Renting a loft in LA. Known to frequent The Palette, a dive bar masquerading as an art gallery.
And then I see what I’m really after. Where he’s staying in Paris.
I'll crush him, this boy who thinks he can play in my league. I'll show Harper the mistake she's making, remind her of everything I can give her that he can't.
I spin the Bentley around, tires squealing on pristine asphalt. The setting sun paints Paris in shades of blood red and deep purple. It feels like an omen, a promise of the storm I'm about to unleash.
Tyler Morris has no idea what's coming for him. By the time I'm done, he'll wish he'd never set eyes on Harper. And she'll realize that there's no escaping me, no matter how far she runs.
She is mine .
Harper
My heart races as Tyler and I dash through the winding streets of Paris, the cobblestones uneven beneath our feet. The City of Light feels more like a shadowy maze as we duck into narrow alleys and slip between buildings older than time. I can still feel Mason's eyes on me, burning with possessive fury.
We finally reach Tyler's rented flat, a cozy garret tucked away in a quiet corner of Montmartre. As soon as the door closes behind us, I slump against the wall, my legs shaking. Tyler wraps me in a tight hug, and for a moment, I let myself believe we're safe.
The flat is small but charming, with slanted ceilings and dormer windows that offer glimpses of the Parisian skyline. Canvases and art supplies are scattered everywhere, evidence of Tyler's latest creative burst. In any other circumstance, I'd be itching to pick up a brush myself.
Instead, I pace the worn wooden floors, hugging myself tightly. "He'll find us," I whisper, more to myself than to Tyler. "He’s rich."
And obsessed with me , I can’t help thinking. Didn’t he admit as much?
Tyler tries to distract me, pulling out a bottle of wine and two mismatched glasses. We sip the rich Bordeaux as the sun sets, painting the sky in hues that would make Monet weep. For a brief moment, I allow myself to relax, to imagine a life free from Mason's suffocating grip.
But even as I try to villanize him, I can’t forget how gentle he was with me. How his hands and mouth felt on me when we made love.
But then I remember his possessive fury when he assualted that waiter for whistling at me. There are definitely two sides to Mason. I just don’t know which one to trust.
As night falls, the flat takes on an almost magical quality. Moonlight streams through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor. The distant sounds of Parisian nightlife drift up from the streets below—laughter, music, the clinking of glasses. I hate myself for wondering what Mason and I would be doing right now if I hadn’t fled with Tyler.
But I did the right thing, right? Because I can’t stay with Mason if what Tyler said about him is true, and Tyler wouldn’t make something like that up.
Tyler and I talk late into the night, reminiscing about our days in art school, dreaming of the future. Talking more about Mason.
Just as I'm starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, we've given Mason the slip, there's a sharp knock on the door. I look at Tyler with wide eyes. I already know it's Mason. He's found me already.
My breath catches in my throat as the knocking grows more insistent. Tyler and I exchange panicked glances, frozen in place like deer in headlights. The old wooden door rattles on its hinges with each thunderous blow.
"Harper!" Mason's voice booms from the other side, a mixture of fury and desperation. "I know you're in there. Open the door!"
My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my fingertips. I grab Tyler's arm, my nails digging into his skin. "What do we do?" I whisper, though I already know it's hopeless.
Before Tyler can answer, there's a deafening crack as the door splinters. It flies open, revealing Mason silhouetted in the doorway like an avenging angel. His eyes lock onto mine, dark and stormy with barely contained rage.
"Harper," he growls, striding into the room. His presence seems to fill every corner, making the cozy garret feel claustrophobic.
Tyler steps in front of me, arms spread wide. "Leave her alone, man. She doesn't want to go with you."
Mason's laugh is cold and humorless. "Is that what you think?" He brushes past Tyler as if he's nothing more than an annoying insect. "Harper belongs with me. Always has, always will."
I back away, bumping into an easel. Tubes of paint clatter to the floor, splattering vibrant colors across the worn floorboards. The scent of linseed oil fills the air, mingling with the tension.
"Mason, please," I plead, hating the tremor in my voice. "Just go. We can talk about this later."
His eyes soften for a moment, and I catch a glimpse of the man I fell for. But then his jaw clenches, and that tenderness is replaced by steely determination.
In two long strides, he closes the distance between us.
I yelp as he grabs me, easily lifting me off my feet. The world spins as he throws me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing. My fists beat uselessly against his broad back.
"Put her down!" Tyler shouts, lunging forward.
Mason turns, keeping me balanced effortlessly. "Stay out of this if you know what's good for you," he snarls at Tyler. "This is between me and Harper."
As Mason carries me out of the flat, I catch one last glimpse of Tyler's stricken face.
I kick against Mason's muscular back, my heels drumming a frantic rhythm. It's like striking a brick wall—he barely seems to notice. The Parisian night air is cool on my flushed skin as he carries me down the narrow staircase, my hair brushing against the peeling wallpaper.
"Let me go!" I yell, my voice echoing in the stairwell. An elderly woman pokes her head out of her apartment, eyes wide with alarm. Mason flashes her a charming smile, as if this is all perfectly normal.
"Newlyweds," he explains smoothly in flawless French. "Too much champagne."
The woman tuts sympathetically and retreats back inside. I want to scream for help, but the words stick in my throat.
Outside, the streets of Montmartre are alive with tourists and locals enjoying the balmy evening. Cafés spill out onto the sidewalks, the clinking of glasses and bursts of laughter a stark contrast to the tension thrumming through my body. A street artist is capturing the scene in bold strokes of color, and for a surreal moment, I wonder if we'll end up immortalized in his painting—the furious billionaire and his unwilling captive.
Mason strides purposefully towards a sleek black car idling at the curb, its engine a low purr. With one fluid motion, he opens the passenger door and deposits me inside. Before I can even think about escaping, he's efficiently buckled me in, the seatbelt a restraint I can't break free from.
I'm still struggling when he slides into the driver's seat, the leather creaking beneath him. The car's interior smells of expensive cologne and new leather. It's achingly familiar—the scent of wealth and power that always clings to Mason.
"Where are you taking me?" I demand, hating how small my voice sounds.
Mason's eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror as he pulls away from the curb. The glow from the dashboard casts shadows across his face, making him look even more dangerous and alluring.
"Back to the Ritz," he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Where else?"
The car glides through the Parisian streets, a bubble of luxury insulating us from the vibrant nightlife outside. We pass the Moulin Rouge, its famous windmill casting red light across our faces. Tourists crowd the sidewalks, oblivious to the drama unfolding mere feet away.
I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching my breath fog the pane. The Eiffel Tower looms in the distance, a glittering sentinel over the city. It feels like a cruel joke—I'm in one of the most romantic cities in the world, trapped with a man I both desire and fear.
Mason's knuckles are white on the steering wheel, the only outward sign of his tension. The silence between us grows until he finally breaks it. “Why did you run from me?”
I scoff. “As if you don’t know.”
“I don’t,” he deadpans. “Tell me.”
I stare at Mason in disbelief, my mouth hanging open. The lights of Paris streak past us, casting alternating shadows and illumination across his chiseled features. His dark eyes remain fixed on the road ahead, but I can see the muscle in his jaw working.
"Are you serious?" I finally sputter. "The artist communities, Mason. The ones you've systematically destroyed with your 'urban renewal' projects."
He glances at me, brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "What artist communities?"
I feel like I've been doused in ice water. Could Tyler have been wrong? No, impossible. I press on, the words tumbling out in a rush.
"The Warehouse District in Chicago. That collective in Brooklyn. The entire Arts Quarter in San Francisco. Your company swoops in, buys up property for pennies, and then forces out all the artists and small business owners to build luxury condos and artisanal coffee shops."
I gesture wildly, nearly smacking my hand on the leather-wrapped ceiling of the car. "Hundreds of people lost their homes, their studios, their livelihoods. And for what? So you could turn a bigger profit?"
Mason's grip on the steering wheel tightens, his knuckles turning white. We glide past the illuminated facade of the Louvre, its pyramid glowing like a beacon in the night. The juxtaposition of ancient and modern architecture seems fitting for this surreal conversation.
"Harper," he says slowly, as if explaining something to a child, "I have no idea what you're talking about. My company doesn't do urban renewal projects. We're primarily in tech and finance."
I blink rapidly, trying to process this information. "But...but Tyler said..."
Mason's laugh is sharp and humorless. "Tyler? You mean the guy who's been trying to get into your pants since art school?"
I open my mouth to protest, but Mason continues. “Just because you friend-zoned him years ago doesn’t mean the guy won’t stop trying.”
He takes a hand off the wheel to run it through his hair in frustration. "Christ, Harper. Did it ever occur to you to fact-check before running off with him?"
We're approaching the Place de la Concorde now, the obelisk at its center stretching towards the star-studded sky. The car slows as we hit traffic, giving me a moment to collect my scattered thoughts.
"But...Tyler wouldn’t make up something like that," I say weakly.
Mason's eyes flicker to me, a mixture of frustration and something softer—hurt, maybe?—in their depths. The Ferris wheel of the Place de la Concorde looms before us, its lights reflecting off the Seine like scattered diamonds. He maneuvers the car smoothly through the roundabout, the Arc de Triomphe rising in the distance like a ghostly sentinel.
"Harper," he says, his voice low and intense, "I don't think Tyler intentionally lied to you. But I think he made a crucial mistake."
We turn onto the Champs-élysées, the famous avenue stretching before us like a glittering ribbon. The trees lining the street are festooned with twinkling lights, creating a magical canopy above. Late-night shoppers stroll past haute couture boutiques, their windows gleaming with the latest fashions.
"What do you mean?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Mason sighs, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. A street performer on the corner is breathing fire, the flames casting eerie shadows across the faces of the gathered crowd. The scent of roasting chestnuts wafts through the car's vents, a jarring contrast to the tension inside.
"The company Tyler's talking about? It's called Blackwood Realty, not Blackwood Industries," Mason explains. "They're a massive private equity firm, and yeah, they've been involved in some controversial urban development projects."
My mind reels as I process this information. We pass the ornate facade of the Petit Palais, its golden gates gleaming in the moonlight. A group of laughing tourists spills out of a nearby brasserie, the clinking of their champagne glasses barely audible over the purr of the car's engine.
"But...but they sound so similar," I stammer, feeling a cold knot of dread forming in my stomach.
Mason nods, his expression grim. "Exactly. It's an easy mistake to make, especially if you're not familiar with the business world. Realty, Industries, but both Blackwood...to an outsider, they probably sound like the same company."
We turn onto a smaller street, the grand buildings giving way to charming sidewalk cafes and intimate wine bars. A street artist is capturing the scene in watercolors, his brush dancing across the paper in fluid strokes.
"So Tyler just...jumped to conclusions?" I ask, my voice small.
Mason's hand leaves the wheel, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. The gentle gesture is at odds with the frustration evident in his voice. "It looks that way. He probably heard about Blackwood's projects, made the connection to my last name, and assumed the worst without bothering to verify anything."
We pull up to the grand entrance of the Ritz, the hotel's facade glowing warmly against the night sky. A uniformed valet approaches as Mason brings the car to a stop.
My mind reels as I try to process everything Mason has just told me. Could it really all be a misunderstanding? Did I flee based on false information?
As the valet opens my door, I hesitate, unsure if I should get out. Mason comes around and offers his hand. His eyes are intense, searching my face.
"Harper," he says softly. "I know you're confused right now. But please, come upstairs with me. Let's talk this through."
I bite my lip, wavering. I feel like a piece of shit. I jumped to conclusions too and left him for no reason.
With a shaky breath, I place my hand in his. His fingers close around mine, warm and familiar.
We move through the opulent lobby in silence, the plush carpet muffling our footsteps. In the elevator, Mason stands close, his presence both comforting and overwhelming. The air feels charged between us.
When we enter the suite, I'm struck anew by its luxury—the silk drapes, the crystal chandeliers, the sprawling view of Paris twinkling beyond floor-to-ceiling windows. It's a far cry from Tyler's cramped garret.
Mason pours us both a drink, handing me a crystal tumbler of amber liquid. I take a sip, welcoming the burn.
"Harper," he begins, running a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry for how I acted earlier. Seeing you run off with Tyler...it made me crazy. The thought of losing you?—"
He breaks off, jaw clenching. When he continues, his voice is raw with emotion.
"You have to know how much you mean to me. This time with you has been the happiest of my life. I've never felt this way about anyone before."
My heart races at his words.
Mason sighs heavily. "And I know I got angry, but all I knew was that the woman I lo- care about deeply was fleeing from me in terror. It gutted me, Harper."
He moves closer, cupping my face in his hands. His touch sends shivers down my spine.
"I'm not perfect," he murmurs. "I know I can be intense, possessive even. But everything I do, I do out of love for you."
My breath catches at that word. Love . We've never said it before, always dancing around the depth of our feelings.
"Mason, I?—"
But before I can finish, his lips are on mine in a searing kiss. All my doubts and fears melt away as I mold my body to his, losing myself in his passionate embrace.
And then he hoists me into his arms, and my legs wrap around him. I feel his cock prodding against me through our clothing. e unzips himself, hikes my dress up and pulls my panties to the side. In an instant, he’s inside me.
I cry out at the sudden fullness as he sets a punishing pace. His hand fists in my hair, and his eyes blaze into mine with an almost feral intensity. “Don’t you ever fucking run from me again, do you hear me, baby? I would never fucking hurt you. Don’t you know that?”
My head spins as Mason thrusts into me, his words and actions overwhelming my senses. The intensity in his eyes both thrills and frightens me. I cling to his broad shoulders, my nails digging into his skin through his shirt.
"I'm sorry," I gasp, my voice breaking. "I didn't mean to?—"
He cuts me off with another bruising kiss, his tongue demanding entrance. I yield to him, moaning into his mouth as he hits that perfect spot inside me. The mix of pleasure and lingering anxiety has me trembling in his arms.
Mason breaks the kiss, his breath hot against my ear. "You're mine, Harper. Only mine. Say it."
A small part of me wants to resist, to assert my independence. But a larger part craves his possession, his all-consuming desire. "I'm yours," I whimper, arching into him. "Only yours, Mason."
His pace quickens, and I can feel myself hurtling towards the edge. The Parisian skyline blurs beyond the windows as he presses me against the cool glass. I'm vaguely aware that anyone could look up and see us, but I'm too far gone to care.
"That's my good girl," Mason growls, his voice thick with lust and something darker. "Come for me, baby. Show me who you belong to."
His words push me over the precipice. I cry out as waves of pleasure crash over me, my inner walls clenching around him. Mason follows moments later with a guttural groan, burying himself deep inside me as he finds his release.
We stay like that for a long moment, our ragged breathing the only sound in the room. Slowly, Mason lowers me to my feet, keeping me steady as my legs threaten to give out. His hands frame my face, and when I meet his gaze, I'm struck by the vulnerability there.
"I can't lose you, Harper," he says softly. "You have to know that."
I nod, unable to find my voice. The enormity of what just happened—of everything that's happened today—crashes over me. Tears well up in my eyes, and Mason pulls me close, cradling me against his chest.
"Shh, it's okay," he murmurs, stroking my hair. "I've got you."
And I can’t help but feel like I don’t deserve his forgiveness. How could I ever think he would hurt me?