CHAPTER 11
AUDREY
I am sitting cross-legged on the massive charcoal sofa, staring at a carton of Kung Pao chicken, trying to figure out how I got here.
Not just geographically. I understand the geography. I took a terrifying ride to the South Loop, interrupted a blackmail transaction, and rode back to the Gold Coast holding hands with the Devil of Chicago.
I mean here. Emotionally.
I look down at my left hand. The vintage diamond catches the soft light of the floor lamp next to the sofa. I haven't taken it off. Even when I washed my hands after getting back to the penthouse, I left it on. It feels less like a prop now and more like a permanent fixture.
The heavy oak door of the home office clicks open, the sound cutting through the quiet of the apartment.
I freeze, the wooden chopsticks hovering halfway to my mouth.
Malcolm steps out into the hallway. He has lost the suit jacket and the tie.
The top three buttons of his white dress shirt are undone, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He looks exhausted.
It’s a subtle exhaustion—the kind that sits behind the eyes and tightens the line of the jaw—but after spending the last forty-eight hours studying his face, I can see it.
He stops at the edge of the living room, his gaze immediately finding me on the sofa.
"You're eating out of a cardboard box," he says. His voice is quiet, lacking the sharp, commanding edge it had in the parking lot this afternoon.
"It’s efficient," I reply, lowering the chopsticks. "And it saves me from trying to figure out which of your eighty-four identical white plates I’m allowed to use."
Malcolm walks toward the kitchen island, dropping his keys and his phone onto the marble. "You can use all of them, Audrey. I don't have a plate hierarchy."
"Good to know." I set the carton down on the glass coffee table. "Are you hungry? I over-ordered. Apparently, stress makes me crave sodium."
He turns around, leaning his lower back against the counter. He looks at the carton of food, then at me. The physical distance between the kitchen and the living room starts to feel very small.
We haven't spoken since the car. We walked out of the elevator together, and he immediately went into his office and shut the door. I went to the guest suite. We spent the last four hours separated by drywall and a terrifying amount of unsaid words.
"I'll take the noodles," he says.
I blink. I was half-expecting him to refuse, to retreat back into his sterile, untouchable routine.
I grab the second carton and a clean pair of chopsticks, standing up from the sofa. I walk over to the kitchen island and slide the food across the marble toward him.
He doesn't sit down. He stays leaning against the counter, opening the carton. He takes a bite, his expression completely unreadable.
"Is it acceptable?" I ask, leaning against the opposite side of the island.
"It is aggressively salty," he murmurs. "And entirely lacking in nutritional value."
"So, it’s perfect."
A tiny, almost imperceptible smile touches the corner of his mouth. It’s gone a second later, but the sight of it does something dangerous to my heart rate.
We eat in silence for a few minutes. It isn't the heavy, suffocating silence from yesterday. It’s quiet. Domestic. It feels like we are two normal people coming home after a long day at work, instead of two people orchestrating a massive corporate revenge plot.
"Did Grant tell you what he did with the laptop?" I ask, unable to let the quiet settle for too long. My brain needs a problem to solve.
Malcolm swallows, setting the chopsticks down. "Grant wiped the hard drive. He physically destroyed the internal memory components, and the casing was incinerated."
"Oh." I look down at my hands. "That’s thorough."
"I don't leave loose ends, Audrey."
"I know." I trace the edge of the marble counter with my index finger. "Do you think Simon will try again? With a different investigator?"
"He might." Malcolm picks up his glass of water.
"But it won't matter. I spent the afternoon restructuring the firewalls around your personal data. Your mother’s financial records are buried under three layers of encrypted shell accounts.
If someone goes looking for Barbara Jennings, they will find a very boring, very secure trust fund. "
I stop breathing for a second.
I look up at him. He is watching me over the rim of his glass, his dark eyes steady and completely unapologetic.
"You..." I swallow hard, the tightness in my throat making it difficult to speak. "You hid her debt?"
"I erased it," he corrects smoothly. "And I paid off the remaining medical collections. It was a nominal amount."
The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
I grip the edge of the counter, my knuckles turning white. I should be angry. He accessed my family’s private information. He threw his money at a problem I have spent a decade trying to manage on my own. It is the ultimate violation of my independence.
But I’m not angry.
I feel a massive, crushing weight lift off my chest. The shame I’ve carried since I was twelve years old—the fear of the phone ringing, the panic of the mail arriving—is just gone. Erased.
"You paid it off," I repeat, my voice cracking slightly.
"It was a vulnerability," Malcolm says. He sets the glass down. He is trying to sound clinical. He is trying to frame it as a tactical maneuver to protect the fake engagement.
But he’s a terrible liar.
"Malcolm." I push away from the counter and take a step around the island, closing the distance between us. "You didn't have to do that. You already bought the laptop from Russo. The immediate threat was gone."
"The immediate threat was gone," he agrees, turning his body slightly to face me. "But the anxiety wasn't. You spent the entire ride back to the city staring at the window, calculating how long it would take Simon to find another angle. I don't want you calculating, Audrey. I want you sleeping."
He says it with such absolute, terrifying sincerity that I physically take a half-step back.
He is too much. The money, the power, the sheer, unrelenting focus he aims directly at me. It’s overwhelming.
"I don't know how to repay you for that," I whisper, wrapping my arms around my stomach. "I can't afford—"
"Stop." The word is sharp. It cuts through my panic instantly.
Malcolm pushes off the counter. He steps into my space, stopping just inches away from me. The scent of cedar and the faint, lingering smell of the cold city air surrounds me.
"You do not owe me anything," he says, his voice dropping to a rough, quiet register. "This is not a transaction. I am not Simon. I do not keep a ledger of what I give you so I can use it against you later."
"Then why do it?" I ask, tilting my head back to look at him. The golden light from the kitchen pendants casts harsh shadows across his cheekbones. "Why go out of your way to fix something that has nothing to do with the contract?"
He looks down at me. The muscle in his jaw flexes.
He reaches out. His hand hovers in the air for a fraction of a second before his fingers brush against the side of my neck. The touch is so light it barely registers, but the heat of his skin sends a violent shiver straight down my spine.
"I told you in the car," he murmurs, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "Protecting you is the only thing I am certain of."
My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic, erratic rhythm that I know he can feel under his thumb.
I should pull away. I should remind him of the rules I tried to set yesterday morning. If you ever try to use this fake relationship to leverage me into anything physical, I walk away.
But he isn't leveraging me. He is just standing here, offering me everything, and waiting to see if I am brave enough to take it.
I lean into his touch.
It is a microscopic movement, barely a fraction of an inch, but it changes the gravity in the room.
Malcolm’s breath hitches. His focus sharpens, the last remnants of the controlled, clinical CEO vanishing completely. His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in the messy knot of my hair.
He pulls me closer.
My hands come up automatically, pressing flat against his chest to steady myself. I can feel the heavy, rapid thud of his heart beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. He is just as affected by this as I am.
"Audrey," he whispers, his mouth hovering inches from mine. The word sounds like a warning.
"Transparency, Malcolm," I whisper back, throwing his own rule in his face.
He doesn't hesitate.
He lowers his head and kisses me.
It isn't like the kiss at the gala. That was a performance. That was a weapon aimed at his brother. This is entirely different.
His mouth is warm, firm, and completely demanding. He doesn't ask for permission; he just takes it, his lips pressing against mine with a desperate, crushing intensity.
My brain short-circuits.
I open my mouth beneath his, a soft, involuntary sound escaping the back of my throat.
Malcolm groans, a low, rough vibration that I feel all the way down to my toes.
His other hand wraps around my waist, pulling me flush against him.
The hard lines of his body press into the soft fabric of my sweater.
I slide my hands up his chest, gripping his shoulders, anchoring myself to him as the kiss deepens. He tastes like coffee and something dark and intoxicating that is entirely his own.
He walks me backward. I don't even realize we are moving until the back of my thighs hit the edge of the marble island.
Malcolm presses into me, trapping me between the cold stone and the absolute heat of his body. He kisses me like he is trying to consume me, like he is trying to erase every memory I have of anyone else who has ever touched me.
It is terrifying. It is intoxicating.
I pull back slightly, gasping for air. My chest is heaving, my lips swollen and burning from the friction.
Malcolm doesn't let me go far. He rests his forehead against mine, his breathing just as ragged as mine. His hands grip my waist, his fingers digging slightly into the fabric of my sweater.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, his voice a harsh, broken rasp. "Tell me you want to keep the door locked, Audrey, and I will step back."
I look into his eyes. They are entirely black in the dim light, filled with a raw, violent need that he is barely keeping in check.
He is giving me the choice. The man who controls everything, the man who buys people and ruins lives, is standing in his own kitchen, waiting for my permission.
I slide my hands from his shoulders up to his neck, my fingers tracing the faint, jagged scar I noticed last night.
"I don't want to lock the door," I whisper.
Malcolm closes his eyes, a heavy, shuddering breath escaping his lungs.
When he opens them again, the hesitation is gone.
He kisses me again, harder this time. He slides his hands under the hem of my oversized sweater, his large, warm palms pressing directly against the bare skin of my waist. I gasp into his mouth, the sudden contact sending a jolt of electricity straight to my core.
He lifts me.
It happens so fast I barely have time to react. He grips my hips and lifts me onto the edge of the marble island, stepping between my legs. The physical proximity is overwhelming. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, completely abandoning whatever rational thought I had left.
"You are going to ruin me," I murmur against his lips, my hands tangling in his dark hair.
Malcolm pulls back just enough to look at me. His expression is fierce, possessive, and completely devoted.
"I am going to ruin everyone else," he corrects softly, his thumb brushing against my swollen lower lip. "You, I am going to keep."
The words settle deep in my chest, heavy and permanent.
I don't care about the contract anymore. I don't care about Simon, or the media, or the engagement party.
I pull him back down to me, surrendering completely to the monster I was supposed to be afraid of.