Clause of Seduction

3

Chapter Three: Streets and Secrets

The SUV lurches as Cassian swerves around a delivery truck, the black sedan still glued to our tail. Manhattan’s lights blur past, a kaleidoscope of neon and concrete, but my world narrows to the thud of my heart and the screech of tires. I grip the door handle, my bare feet braced against the floorboard, glass cuts stinging like a reminder of how fast this night went to hell. Cassian’s face is stone, his gray eyes flicking between the road and the rearview mirror, but there’s a tension in his jaw that tells me he’s not as calm as he looks.

“Who are they, Cassian?” I demand, my voice sharp over the roar of the engine. “And don’t give me that ‘I don’t know’ bullshit. You know something.”

He doesn’t look at me, just yanks the wheel to dodge a cab, horns blaring behind us. “Not now, Talia. Just hold on.”

“Hold on?” I snap, twisting in my seat to glare at him. “My apartment was just invaded, someone shot at me, and now we’re in a damn car chase! You don’t get to play mysterious lawyer right now. Talk!”

The sedan rams us again, the jolt slamming me against the seatbelt. I bite back a curse, my ribs aching from the coffee table crash earlier. Cassian mutters something under his breath, then cuts left down a narrow side street, the SUV’s tires screaming. The sedan follows, too close, its engine growling like a beast.

“They’re Lang’s people,” he says finally, his voice low, clipped. “NexusCorp. That’s all you need to know for now.”

“Lang?” My mind races back to his office, the way his face changed when I showed him that email. Victor Lang. Tech mogul. Bad news. “Why’s a tech mogul sending goons after me? What’s Derek into?”

Cassian’s eyes flick to me, just for a second, and there’s something in them—guilt, maybe, or regret. “It’s not just Derek. It’s you. Your company. Whitlock Enterprises is sitting on something Lang wants. Badly.”

I open my mouth to demand more, but the sedan clips our rear bumper, spinning us into a fishtail. Cassian wrestles the wheel, keeping us from slamming into a dumpster. My stomach lurches, and I grab the dashboard, my nails digging into the leather. “What do they want?” I shout. “The algorithm? The logistics tech?”

He doesn’t answer, just floors the gas, weaving through Tribeca’s maze of streets. The sedan’s still there, relentless, its dark windows hiding whoever’s inside. I’m not stupid—I know Cassian’s holding back. He’s too calm, too good at this, like he’s dodged bullets before. Those scars on his knuckles aren’t from paper cuts.

“Cassian, if you don’t start talking, I’m jumping out of this car,” I say, half-meaning it. “I don’t trust you, and I’m not dying for your secrets.”

He shoots me a look, his crooked smile flashing despite the chaos. “You’re not jumping anywhere, Talia. And you’re not dying tonight. Trust me or not, I’m getting you out of this.”

Before I can argue, he yanks the wheel hard, pulling us into an underground parking garage. The sedan overshoots, tires screeching as it tries to double back. Cassian doesn’t slow down, navigating the garage’s tight turns like he’s done it a hundred times. He pulls into a shadowed corner, kills the engine, and grabs my arm. “Stay low,” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear.

We duck, my heart pounding so loud I’m sure they can hear it outside. The sedan’s engine rumbles somewhere above, circling, searching. I’m pressed against Cassian in the dark, his hand still on my arm, and I hate how my body reacts to his touch—warmth spreading where there should only be fear. I pull away, glaring at him through the dim light. “Start talking, Vale. Now.”

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, but you’re not gonna like it. NexusCorp isn’t just a tech firm. It’s a front for data trafficking—sensitive stuff, logistics routes, supply chains. Your company’s algorithm? It’s a goldmine for black-market deals. Lang’s been after it for years, and Derek’s his way in.”

I stare at him, my mind reeling. “Derek’s selling my tech to a criminal?” The betrayal cuts deeper than I expect, like a knife twisting in an old wound. I built Whitlock Enterprises from nothing, poured my soul into it while Derek chased his ego around the globe. And now he’s selling me out to some tech kingpin?

“Not just selling,” Cassian says, his voice grim. “He signed over thirty percent of your company to NexusCorp. That email you found? It’s proof. But it’s encrypted, and Lang’s people will do anything to keep it that way.”

The sedan’s engine grows louder, closer. I swallow, my throat dry. “Anything like killing me?”

Cassian’s eyes meet mine, and for once, there’s no charm, no smirk. “Yeah. Like that.”

The sedan’s headlights sweep through the garage, and I hold my breath, my body tense against the seat. Cassian’s hand brushes mine, a fleeting touch that’s probably meant to reassure but only makes me more aware of how out of my depth I am. I’m not a fighter, not like him. I’m a survivor, sure, but this? This is war.

The headlights pass, and the sedan’s engine fades, moving to another level. Cassian waits a beat, then starts the SUV, keeping the lights off. “We need to get you somewhere safe,” he says, pulling out of the garage and back onto the street. “My place. It’s secure, and we can figure out our next move.”

“Your place?” I raise an eyebrow, trying to mask my unease with sarcasm. “What, you think I’m just gonna crash at your bachelor pad while Lang’s goons hunt me?”

He chuckles, but it’s tight, strained. “It’s not a bachelor pad. It’s a fortress. And right now, you need one.”

I don’t argue. I don’t have a better option. My apartment’s compromised, my phone’s gone, and Derek’s turned into a traitor. Cassian’s my only lifeline, even if I don’t fully trust him. Those scars, that ease in a chase—he’s got his own secrets, and I’m betting they’re as dangerous as mine.

We drive in silence, the city a blur of lights and shadows. My mind keeps replaying the night: Derek’s nervous eyes, the thug’s grip, the gunshot shattering my window. And that text—Stop, or you’ll regret it. Someone knew I was digging, knew about the email. But how? I only showed it to Cassian.

I glance at him, his profile sharp against the glow of the dashboard. “How’d you get here so fast?” I ask, my voice quieter than I mean it to be. “You were ten minutes away from Tribeca at midnight. You always this ready for a rescue?”

His hands tighten on the wheel, just for a second. “I don’t sleep much,” he says, dodging the question. “And I had a feeling you’d need me.”

“A feeling?” I scoff, but my stomach twists. He’s too smooth, too prepared. I want to push, to demand answers, but we’re pulling up to a sleek high-rise in Hell’s Kitchen, all glass and steel. He parks in a private garage, and I follow him to an elevator that requires a keycard and a code. This isn’t just a fortress—it’s a damn vault.

His apartment is minimalist, all clean lines and dark wood, with a view of the Hudson River that would’ve taken my breath away if I wasn’t already gasping from the night’s chaos. He tosses his keys on a counter, then turns to me, his eyes scanning my cuts and bare feet. “You need to clean those up,” he says, nodding to my hands. “Bathroom’s down the hall. I’ll grab a first-aid kit.”

I hesitate, then nod, too tired to argue. The bathroom’s as sleek as the rest of the place, with a mirror that shows me how wrecked I look—hair wild, eyes bloodshot, blood streaking my hands. I rinse the cuts under cold water, wincing, and try to piece together what’s happening. Derek’s deal with NexusCorp, Lang’s goons, Cassian’s secrets—it’s all connected, and I’m the one caught in the crosshairs.

Cassian knocks, then steps in with a first-aid kit. He’s shed his shirt for a black tee, and I try not to notice the way it clings to his shoulders. He kneels, inspecting my feet with a gentleness that doesn’t match the fighter I saw in his eyes. “These aren’t deep,” he says, dabbing antiseptic on a cut. “You’re lucky.”

“Lucky’s not the word I’d use,” I mutter, pulling my foot back. “Why didn’t you tell me about Lang earlier? You knew he was trouble.”

He sighs, sitting back on his heels. “I didn’t want to scare you. Not until I was sure. Lang’s not just a businessman—he’s got ties to some nasty people. I’ve… crossed him before.”

“Crossed him how?” I press, leaning forward. “Those scars on your knuckles aren’t from law school, Cassian. What’s your deal?”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he’s going to shut me out. But then he stands, pacing to the sink, his back to me. “I used to box,” he says, his voice low. “Underground fights, before I got my s**t together. My promoter had ties to Lang’s network. I got out, but not clean. Lang doesn’t forget a face.”

I stare at him, the pieces clicking into place. The way he handled that chase, the ease with danger—it’s not just lawyer instincts. He’s been in the dark before. “So this is personal for you too,” I say, not a question.

He turns, his eyes meeting mine, and there’s a rawness there that makes my chest ache. “Yeah. But right now, it’s about keeping you alive. That email you found? It’s our leverage, but we need the encryption key. Without it, we’ve got nothing.”

I nod, my mind racing. “Derek’s got the key. I know him—he’s paranoid. It’s probably on his phone.”

Cassian’s eyes light up, like a hunter spotting prey. “Then we get his phone. But not tonight. You need rest, and I need to make some calls.”

I want to argue, to keep pushing, but exhaustion hits me like a freight train. I follow him to a guest room, sparse but clean, with a bed that looks like heaven. He hands me a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, his fingers brushing mine. “Get some sleep, Talia. We’re in this together now.”

I want to believe him, but trust is a jagged edge I can’t grip. I nod, shutting the door behind him, and collapse onto the bed, my mind still spinning. Derek’s betrayal, Lang’s goons, Cassian’s past—it’s a storm, and I’m in the eye. But as I drift toward sleep, one thought claws at me: that text came right after I showed Cassian the email. He’s the only one who knew I was digging.

My eyes snap open, heart racing. I slip out of bed, barefoot on the cold floor, and creep to the door. Voices drift from the living room—Cassian’s, low and urgent, on the phone. “Yeah, it’s her,” he says. “She’s got the email, but she doesn’t know the half of it. We need to move fast.”

My breath catches, and I press myself against the wall, my pulse hammering. Who’s he talking to? And what doesn’t he want me to know?