Chapter 12 Bitsy #4
Panic surged through her veins, a cold, suffocating terror.
She couldn't tell him. She couldn't let him see how broken her life was.
"They're... they're just for emergencies," she lied, her voice cracking slightly as she forced a small, fake smile onto her face.
"You know... Bridgeport winters get really bad, and the car is old.
I just keep them back there in case I ever break down on the highway or get stuck in the snow.
It's just... it's just a safety precaution. "
Wyatt didn't move. He stood completely still, his dark eyes boring into hers with a heavy, piercing focus that felt like a physical weight pressing against her chest. Silence stretched between them in the cold parking lot, thick and suffocating.
Bitsy held her breath, her fingers trembling against the car door, praying to whatever universe was listening that he would just let it go.
She couldn't tell if he bought her lie. His expression remained entirely unreadable, a hard, stoic mask of absolute control, but after a long, agonizing beat, he finally took a half-step back.
"Put your seatbelt on," Wyatt commanded, his voice dropping into a low, quiet rumble that carried a strange, heavy undercurrent of something she couldn't quite define.
"Drive straight home and get safely inside.
I don't want you out in this cold any longer than necessary.
I will see you Monday morning at nine o'clock sharp. Do not be late."
"Yes, sir," Bitsy whispered, her voice incredibly tiny as she quickly slid into the driver's seat, setting her bags on the passenger floor.
Wyatt closed the heavy door for her, standing like a dark, protective sentinel as she started the rattling engine. Bitsy shifted into drive, her hands gripping the worn steering wheel as she pulled out of the secure Enigma lot and turned onto the city street.
She drove carefully, keeping her eyes strictly on the road, watching the rearview mirror until the towering, sleek facade of the Enigma building completely vanished from view.
The moment she turned a corner into a quiet, industrial warehouse district a mile away, the absolute dam of adrenaline inside her finally broke.
She pulled the car over to the curb, shifted into park, and let out a long, ragged breath, burying her face in the steering wheel.
So much had happened in the span of twelve hours.
Her entire life had been completely upended, torn apart, and rebuilt into something she didn't even recognize.
She was completely overwhelmed with a chaotic storm of feelings.
She had walked into that building ready to face an arrest warrant or a corporate lawsuit, and instead, she had been handed a six-figure salary, a warm coat, a hot meal, and a lifeline.
Why did he do it? She thought, her chest heaving as she wiped a hot tear from her cheek. He should have called the police. He should have had me locked away for what I did to his network. Instead... he took care of me.
The way he spoke to her echoed through her mind, his deep, absolute voice vibrating in her ears. The unyielding authority, the quiet commands that bypassed her defenses entirely, and the way he had looked at her with such intense, protective discipline. Little one. He had called her little one.
He was absolutely a daddy. The thought bloomed quietly in her mind, a soft, heavy realization that made her heart ache with a strange, hollow longing. She wondered if he had a little girl of his own—a real little girl who got to live in that safe, structured world every single day.
But as quickly as the thought appeared, Bitsy harshly brushed it away, a bitter sense of reality settling over her.
Not that he would ever be interested in someone like her, she reminded herself, looking down at her faded, oversized sweater and her worn sneakers.
I'm nothing compared to him. I'm a stray kid hiding in a sedan, and he runs an empire. I definitely don't belong in his world.
She took a deep, grounding breath, the warmth of Lennon's heavy coat still wrapping her body in a protective embrace. She needed to focus on the logic. She had a contract. She had a real job starting on Monday, and she had a salary that was going to save her life.
Leaning across the console, she reached under the passenger seat to retrieve the old glass jar she kept tucked deep out of sight.
Unscrewing the lid, she pulled out the small, crinkled stack of cash she had been hoarding for months—the tiny survival fund she had scraped together dollar by dollar.
It wasn't much, but looking at it now, she realized she didn't have to hoard it for food or gas anymore. She had a paycheck coming.
She needed to look professional. She couldn't walk back into that high-end executive suite on Monday morning looking like a runaway hiding in an oversized sweater.
Tomorrow, she decided, she would take some of this money and find a thrift store on the outskirts of Bridgeport.
She would find some clean, tailored slacks, a few professional blouses—anything to make her look like she actually belonged at a desk at Enigma.
She put the car back into drive, a new, fragile sense of purpose hardening deep in her chest. She had a structure now. She had rules to follow. And for the first time in her life, she was going to do exactly what she was told.