CHAPTER 009: THE GIRL IN THE PHOTOGRAPH 2
1003 Words
Horace didn't blink. “Those are not separate issues, Jordan.”
~
Back in the guest suite, I couldn't sleep.
I told myself I would, lying stiff on top of the covers with my shoes still on, but every time I closed my eyes I saw the photograph, my own handwriting, the warning I’d apparently written for a version of myself who might never remember writing it.
I got up and began opening the heavy minimalist drawers of the wardrobe. Inside, someone had already organized an entire wardrobe of new clothes—silk shirts, soft trousers, and structured jackets, all precisely in my size. On the vanity sat a row of premium, burn-safe skincare products, and a bottle of prescribed pain medicine.
A laptop beside it, screen dark, a sticky note on the lid that just said limited access in handwriting I didn’t recognize.
I picked up the new phone, the screen lighting up instantly with a pre-programmed contact list. There was only one name on it.
I pressed the button and held the device to my ear, listening to the single, clear ring before the call connected.
“Jada,” Horace’s deep voice answered.
“You bought me underwear before even asking if I wanted to live here,” I said, my voice smooth and entirely devoid of the shaking from earlier. “That is either a symptom of extreme control or a very expensive apology.”
There was a brief silence on the line, the quiet crackle of the connection stretching between our rooms. “You preferred sleeping in smoke-damaged rags that stink?” Horace asked, his tone dry.
“I prefer being asked,” I said.
Another heavy pause followed. I could hear his rhythmic breathing on the other end of the line.
“Fine,” Horace said, his tone hoarse. “Next time, I ask.”
He hung up before I could reply, but the tiny, unexpected concession left a strange warmth in my chest that I didn't know how to handle.
~
The quiet of the penthouse floor didn't last.
The pounding on the suite door started almost an hour later.
I was still holding the phone when I heard raised voices in the hallway, security trying to be prudent, someone else refusing to be managed.
I pulled my new silk robe tighter around my waist, crossed the room and threw the suite door open, stepping out into the corridor before anyone could stop me just as the disagreement reached the center hallway.
Zayden had forced his way past the first layer of private security downstairs. Being Horace’s son and the star face of the franchise, the building staff had clearly hesitated over who actually held the authority to stop him.
He stood there in a team hockey hoodie, his dark hair still damp like he’d come straight from practice, jaw tight, and his eyes were sharp with absolute fury.
He stormed down the hallway, but stopped dead in his tracks the moment his eyes landed on me standing in the doorway of the guest suite.
He shoved past the doorway and into the suite before I could say anything, taking in the room in one furious sweep, the folded clothes, the new phone in my hand, the evidence box on the bed, the sheets already turned down like someone expected me to stay.
I rushed in behind him.
His jaw set so hard the skin around his mouth turned white. “What the hell are you doing on my father’s private floor?” he demanded, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.
I folded my arms across my chest, leaning slightly against the oak doorframe as I stared at the man who had left me to burn. “Recovering from the kidnapping you laughed at,” I said, keeping my words entirely level and cold.
The reminder hit him visibly, his chest hitching under the heavy fabric of his hoodie, but he covered the flinch instantly with a fresh wave of aggressive anger. “You are being completely dramatic, Jada,” he snapped, taking a step closer to me. “My father is using you for his own leverage against the board. You know that, right? You're only staying here to punish me for what happened at the rink.”
I let out a short, skeptical breath, looking at him like he was a total stranger—which, to my fractured brain, he practically was. “Do you hear yourself, Zayden?” I asked, stepping closer, my voice cutting through his anger, and my own anger finally catching up to everything I’d swallowed all day. “You left me in a warehouse. You hung up on me while a man threatened to sell me for parts. And somehow you’ve managed to make my rescue about your feelings.”
His jaw worked. He didn’t have an answer for that, not a real one, and the silence between us was loud enough to hear.
“Nothing to say?”
“Jada, listen to me—” Zayden reached out, his hand extending toward my arm.
“Step away from her,” a voice commanded from the shadows of the corridor.
Horace walked into the light of the gallery, his large frame entirely dominating the space as he stepped between Zayden and my door. He looked completely calm, but the composure in his posture was incredibly dangerous.
Zayden spun around to face his father, his head tilting up as his anger boiled over. “Tell me you didn’t put her in your bed,” Zayden hissed, his eyes darting between the two of us.
Horace didn't flinch. He looked at me first, his grey-green eyes tracking the silk of the robe against my throat, before his gaze drifted slowly back to his son.
“Not yet,” Horace said.
Zayden’s face drained of color entirely, his hands dropping to his sides as the horrifying realization hit him that his father wasn't denying the desire at all.
“Not yet?”
- Writer
