Chapter 006: THE MAN WHO PAID THE RANSOM 2
876 Words
Jordan turned his head, his professional gaze meeting mine. He didn't try to sugarcoat it. “Yes.”
A laugh punched out of me, brittle and short, because of course. Of course the day had found one more way to get worse.
I looked down at my left hand, and there it was, still there, still catching the elevator lights, Zayden’s ring. I grabbed at it, twisting hard, but my finger had swollen thick from the rope and the fear and the hours of clenching my fists, and the metal wouldn’t budge past the second knuckle.
Jordan noticed my frantic movements. “I can have a doctor remove that properly for you downstairs.”
“Good.” My voice came out flat, stripped of everything but exhaustion. “I’m tired of wearing the ring of a man who left me to die.”
The elevator chimed, the doors sliding open directly into Horace’s private penthouse floor. The space was massive, but it wasn't welcoming. It was incredibly expensive, and dead quiet.
~
A minute later, a man stepped out of his private study.
He was dressed in a dark button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled tightly up his forearms. Even from ten feet away I could see the silver threading through his hair.
His grey-green eyes instantly dropped to the dark, raw bruises circling my wrists. Then his gaze tracked up to my smudged face, finally lingering on the diamond ring still stuck on my hand.
“You look worse than I expected.”
Not are you hurt. Not are you safe. But from his tone and aura, I could tell he was Horace Wallace.
“Worse,” he said again, quieter, like he was correcting himself. “You made a mess again.”
Heat shot straight up my spine and landed somewhere behind my teeth.
Something inside me snapped. My pride, battered and bruised as it was, flared instantly alive. I stepped forward, ignoring the ache in my limbs.
“I don’t remember making anything, Mr. Wallace,” I said, my voice cutting through the quiet room. “But I remember exactly who refused to help when I called. So if you’re waiting on gratitude, you’d better ask fast, because I’m two sentences from changing my mind about needing it.”
Beside me, Jordan immediately dropped his gaze to his tablet, his face completely blank as he deliberately chose not to react to my tone.
Horace’s eyes sharpened instantly, a dangerous look crossing his features. For a brief fraction of a second, he looked completely thrown. I could tell he had expected the old Jada who was probably desperate, loud, or willing to beg for his favor. Instead, I stood right in front of him, covered in soot and bruises, staring back at him with nothing but exhaustion, anger, and absolute disdain for his insults.
He held my gaze for a long moment before speaking. “You will be staying here, in this penthouse, until I uncover exactly who kidnapped you, and why your own family is currently in court trying to have you declared legally incompetent.”
“I’m not staying anywhere.” I crossed my arms, ignoring the sting where the rope had chafed. “If you think paying that ransom automatically makes me your prisoner. Then you are so wrong, Mr Wallace. ”
Horace took two slow, deliberate steps toward me. He was massive, his presence entirely dominating the space between us. As he closed the distance, a sudden wave of familiarity hit my senses…the distinct scent of expensive soap, strong coffee, and a very faint, lingering trace of tobacco.
Before my brain could even process the smell, my body reacted on pure instinct. My pulse violently jumped, a frantic thudding visible against the thin skin of my neck.
Somehow, my n*****s hardened and I clenched my thighs hard.
Horace’s eyes dropped instantly to my throat, noticing the sudden flare of panic. He knew my body was reacting to him.
Without breaking eye contact, Instead, he turned, walked to the low table near the window, and set down a folder.
“Six months,” he said. “You stay here. I pay your medical bills, handle the damage claims on the apartment, freeze whatever legal move your family is making against you. You get supervised access to your old business records.”
He paused, as his gaze ran through my body. “I also grant you restricted access to your old business records under my team's supervision. And in exchange, you remain exactly where I can see you.”
My breath hitched. I leaned over the table, and picked up the folder as my eyes scanned the dense legal text until they hit the specific clause regarding direct supervision.
I looked up slowly, meeting his hardened gaze. “What exactly does direct supervision mean?”
Horace stood perfectly still. His gaze dropped down to my mouth for one brief, agonizing second, the tension in the room stretching until it felt like it would break.
Then, his eyes snapped back up to mine. “It means if your memory comes back and you fall apart,” he said, “I won’t be hearing about it from someone else. Not even your doctor.”
- Writer
