Chapter 4
806 Words
The rain came down hard.
I pedaled through the downpour, my vision blurred by water.
An SUV suddenly changed lanes ahead of me.
I hit the brakes.
The tires slid across the slick asphalt.
The bike went down.
So did I.
My knee slammed into the curb, sending a sharp burst of pain up my leg. The lock on the green delivery box snapped open, and the plastic-wrapped document inside fell into a puddle.
I didn't have time to care about the pain.
I knelt in the water and reached for the file.
A screech of tires cut through the rain.
A black car braked hard beside me, blocking the blinding headlights behind us.
The door opened.
Arthur rushed into the rain without an umbrella.
He grabbed my arm and pulled me up from the ground.
"What are you doing?" His eyes dropped to the blood running down my knee.
"My delivery..."
I struggled to reach for the file.
He bent down, picked up the soaked document, and glanced at the address.
Then he took out his phone and tapped the screen a few times.
My phone vibrated in my pocket.
"I sent you the penalty fee." He shoved the transfer screen in front of me. "The rest is what I'm paying to buy out your entire evening at the group's highest hourly rate."
He didn't give me a chance to refuse.
He put me into the passenger seat, shut the door, and got behind the wheel with the file.
Ten minutes later, the Maybach stopped outside the office building listed on the delivery order.
Arthur handed the damp document to the recipient waiting anxiously under the awning.
The man took it in a daze, his gaze drifting from the steering wheel to the emblem on the front of the car.
He muttered, "People driving Maybachs are doing deliveries now?"
Arthur ignored him.
The car pulled back into the rainy night and headed toward a high-rise apartment building downtown.
The elevator went straight to the top floor.
When the doors opened, we stepped into a large penthouse with clean lines, muted colors, and the kind of minimalism that looked expensive instead of empty.
Arthur tossed a clean towel onto the sofa and gestured for me to sit.
Then he went into a storage room and came back with a first-aid kit.
He knelt on one knee in front of me, opened a bottle of antiseptic, and began cleaning the mud and blood from my knee with a cotton swab.
The sting made me instinctively pull back.
He held my calf in place.
"Mr. Vale, I can do it myself." I reached for the swab in his hand. "If Miss Beatrice sees this, it'll only cause more trouble."
Arthur's hand stopped.
"Beatrice and I aren't together," he said. "It's a PR arrangement. Work. I needed someone to play the part."
I froze.
He stood, looking down at me.
"What?" he asked. "Does that bother you?"
"No."
I avoided his eyes and pushed myself up from the sofa.
"I already have a fiancé. I have no reason to care about someone else's relationship."
Arthur stepped closer.
"Fiancé?"
He caught my wrist.
"Then where is he when you need him?"
"Let go."
I struggled to pull free.
His fingers tightened, and he dragged me toward him.
In the struggle, the necklace I always kept hidden under my collar slipped out and swung into the air.
A silver moon pendant.
Badly oxidized.
Almost black.
Five years ago, Arthur had washed dishes in a bar for a month and spent every cent of that pay on this cheap little gift for me.
His eyes locked onto the blackened moon.
Then he reached out and closed his fingers around it.
His grip was so tight the chain pulled painfully against my neck.
Shock, joy, anger, and something much darker flashed across his face.
His eyes were red.
"You kept it?" He pulled me closer, his breath hot against my face. "If you're marrying someone else, why are you still wearing something I gave you against your skin?"
"Let go..."
I panicked and tried to pry his fingers open.
My heart pounded wildly.
"It's none of your business."
"None of my business?"
He caught my chin, forcing me to look up.
There was something raw and possessive burning in his eyes.
Then he lowered his head, completely out of control, as if he was about to kiss me.
The doorbell rang.
The smart screen on the entry wall lit up.
Outside stood a young man in a pale designer suit.
Daniel.
A rich second-generation heir who often occupied the VIP section at the cigar lounge.
His voice came through the speaker.
"Arthur, open the door."
Daniel raised his phone toward the camera.
"I checked her location. I'm here to take my fiancée home."
- Writer
