Chapter 3 – The Weekend
1666 Words
~ Ava ~
The email popped up just after noon.
I was cozied up on the couch, scrolling through the news, only half paying attention. But when I saw the subject line Sinclair Holdings: Final Ownership Transfer Approval, my heart did a little flip.
At first, I thought it might be a mistake. I opened it, preparing myself for a bunch of legal jargon that would probably go over my head. But the message was pretty clear.
Effective immediately, all Sinclair Holdings assets and operations are now completely owned by Reed Technologies. Confirmation attached.
Attached.
As if it were just a routine formality.
As if my father’s legacy was nothing more than a receipt.
I read it three times. My heart was pounding so loudly I could barely hear anything else. Then I caught sight of the signature at the bottom.
Approved by Jaxon Reed.
My throat felt dry.
No one had told me. No one had even bothered to consult me.
Without a second thought, I stood up, phone still in hand, and marched straight to his office.
---
He was there, of course sitting behind that massive desk, sleeves rolled up, looking as calm as ever. The kind of calm that made you want to scream just to see if he’d react.
He looked up when I burst in.
“What the hell is this?” I demanded, waving my phone in the air.
He blinked slowly, once. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know.” I shoved the screen toward him. “You didn’t tell me you finalized it.”
He didn’t even seem surprised. Just leaned back a bit. “It was inevitable.”
“Inevitable?” I echoed, my voice rising. “You took my father’s company, Jaxon. You said you were saving it, not—”
“I said I’d manage it,” he interrupted smoothly. “And I did.”
“That’s not managing it. That’s stealing it.”
He finally locked eyes with me really locked in, his gaze sharp, mouth tight. “Be careful with your words, Ava.”
“Why? Are you going to sue me?” I shot back.
A muscle in his jaw twitched. That was the first crack I’d ever seen in his calm facade. It almost gave me a little courage.
"I trusted you," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper, trembling with emotion. "You made me believe this marriage was more than just a contract. My father thought—"
"Your father was on board," he interrupted. "He knew what it meant to settle his debts. He signed the papers."
"He had no idea you were going to take everything from us!"
"He understood the risks," Jaxon replied, his voice steady, but there was a shadow in his eyes now—darker, more intense. "You both did."
I struggled to breathe. "You’re unbelievable."
"Don’t make this about feelings," he said flatly. "This is business."
"It’s my family, not just a balance sheet!"
He stood up suddenly, and I instinctively took a step back.
"Everything I’ve done was to keep things from falling apart," he said, his voice dropping. "Your father’s company was already in trouble before I got involved."
"That doesn’t give you the right to own it!"
He moved closer, deliberately. "Do you really think you’d still have a roof over your head if I hadn’t stepped in?"
"I didn’t ask for your help."
"No," he said, his eyes narrowing. "You asked for a marriage."
His words hit harder than I expected.
For a moment, we just locked eyes—I was breathing too fast, and he barely blinked.
"You always twist things around," I whispered. "Every time you’re cruel, you rationalize it with logic."
"I’m not cruel," he said. "I do what needs to be done."
My chest felt tight. "You really believe that, don’t you?"
He stayed silent.
I turned away, ready to walk out before I broke down in front of him. "You know what? You can keep your damn company. You can keep everything. I hope it keeps you warm."
"Ava," he said, his tone dropping not in anger, but as a warning.
I ignored him.
Then I felt his hand wrap around my wrist. It was a firm grip, steady and strong, but the heat radiating from it was anything but calm.
"Let go," I said, trying to pull away.
He held on tight. "You don’t just walk away from me when I’m talking to you."
"Maybe you should stop treating me like one of your employees."
His grip tightened just a bit, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me he could if he wanted to. "You think I enjoy this?"
"You seem to."
His eyes flashed with something fierce, and for a split second, the mask he wore slipped. "You have no idea what I enjoy."
That tone, the danger laced in it made my stomach twist. I yanked my arm free and took a shaky breath.
"I hate you," I blurted out, not even meaning to say it, but there it was.
He didn’t flinch. "No, you don’t."
"Don’t tell me how I feel."
He stepped closer, invading my space until I had to look up at him. "Then stop pretending you don’t feel anything at all."
That was the moment something inside me broke. My hand moved before I could think. The slap rang out through the room.
He didn’t budge. Just stood there, one hand slowly moving to his jaw.
The silence was deafening.
Then he said, quietly, "You’ll regret that."
My heart raced. "Do whatever you usually do when people stop obeying you."
He tilted his head slightly, his eyes darkening. "Fine."
The word was soft, but it felt like a threat.
I stepped back, my heart pounding. "You’re insane."
He didn’t reply. Just watched me leave with that same unreadable expression and I hated how my hands shook as I closed my bedroom door behind me.
---
Two hours passed. I tried to keep myself occupied — TV, reading, even staring out the window but all I could think about was that look in his eyes when he said "Fine."
It wasn’t anger. It was something colder. Something calculated.
Around midnight, someone started banging on my door. Loud, hard, not frantic but deliberate.
I froze.
"Who is it?"
No answer.
The handle turned once, then again. His voice was low, calm, and laced with danger.
"Open the door, Ava."
I hesitated. "It’s late."
"Open. The. Door."
There was something in his tone that made my chest tighten. I opened it.
He stood there, tie missing, hair a bit tousled, the first time I’d seen him look anything less than perfect. His jaw was set, and his eyes were darker than I remembered.
Before I could say a word, he stepped inside and shut the door behind him. The atmosphere shifted instantly.
"What do you want?" I managed to ask.
"You really want to know?"
"Yes," I snapped. "I want to know why you think you can—"
He was already too close. My words faded as his hand caught my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.
"You want to know what I do when people test me?" he said quietly. "When they think they can defy me?"
I swallowed hard. "Let go of me."
He didn’t. His thumb brushed my jaw, slow and deliberate. "You said you hate me."
"Yes, and I still do."
He reached up, tracing his fingers along my jawline. "You shouldn’t have hit me," he murmured.
"Maybe I should’ve hit harder."
Something flickered in his expression, not anger this time, but something sharper.
For a long moment, it felt like the whole world narrowed down to the space between us, his breath, my heartbeat, the heat that shouldn’t have been there.
Before I could say anything, he kissed me.
It wasn’t soft or hesitant, it was a statement. A warning wrapped in a touch. My hands went to his chest, trying to push him back, but he didn’t budge. If anything, he deepened the kiss, steady and unyielding, as if he had decided the conversation was over and this was the only language left.
I wanted to fight him. God, I did. Every part of me screamed to shove him away, to tell him that this was crossing every line. But the more I resisted, the tighter his grip on my waist became, pulling me closer until fighting back felt pointless.
I hated feeling so frozen in place. I hated being unsure about my emotions — anger, shock, fear, and something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
When he finally released me, his breathing was calm, while mine was anything but calm. He looked at me the way he always did unreadable, composed, and icy.
"What on earth was that?" I whispered, my voice barely above a breath.
He didn’t answer. His eyes roamed over my face, calm and calculating. "You said you wanted to understand what happens when people defy me," he said softly. "Now you’ll find out."
Before I could catch my breath, his lips were on mine again. This time, it wasn’t harsh just certain. Measured. As if he was trying to make a point.
I tried to turn my head away, but he followed, the pressure steady and unyielding. My hands instinctively found their way back to his chest, and he caught them, pressing them against his shirt as if he wanted me to feel how steady his heart was compared to my own.
Every move he made felt deliberate. Controlled. Even as he guided me toward the bed, it wasn’t hurried, it was intentional, calculated.
I should’ve stopped him. I told myself I would.
But when his mouth met mine again, I didn’t.
The fight between us burned out fast, replaced by something hotter, heavier, and before I knew it, there was nothing left to resist.
- Writer
