Compensation
1056 Words
Elena Brooks’s porcelain skin framed a pair of luminous eyes that held a wild, untamed pride. Her voice was cool—icy, even—but it carried a velvety richness, like chilled cream.
“Let’s go through insurance. I’ll cover whatever’s not included.”
Lucas Bennett gave a low hum of acknowledgment, then added, “Problem is, I picked this car up an hour before flying in from London. Commercial insurance hasn’t been activated yet.”
Elena blinked. “…”
Translation: the payout was going to hurt.
Police arrived quickly. The two of them rode together in the back of a patrol car to file the official report.
Elena sat rigidly on the right side. Lucas was right beside her.
Even seated, his long legs spread slightly in the confined space, powerful thighs brushing against her bare skin beneath the hem of her black pencil skirt every time the car hit a bump.
Elena grew hyper-aware, shifting to avoid contact—only for her skirt to ride higher in the process.
What had been perfectly modest when she sat down was now… indecently short.
She pressed both hands between her thighs, trying in vain to tug the fabric lower.
The officer up front glanced back occasionally, asking routine questions about the accident.
Lucas’s brow creased in irritation. With a fluid motion, he shrugged off his bespoke suit jacket and dropped it onto her lap, covering the exposed skin.
He hated looking at it.
Especially knowing he’d once had those legs wrapped around him.
Elena glanced down at the jacket now draped over her thighs. It still held the warmth of his body and a faint, crisp scent—something expensive and dangerously familiar.
?
The jacket stayed there the entire ride.
After professional assessment, the damage to the globally bespoke Rolls-Royce Phantom was finalized at one million four hundred ninety thousand dollars.
Paid in full by Elena Brooks.
Hearing the astronomical figure, Elena’s fingers curled tightly at her sides.
Once the paperwork was signed, they stepped out of the precinct together. Elena still clutched Lucas’s jacket in her arms.
Rain continued to pour. Outside, a fresh Maybach waited curbside, driver already holding a large black umbrella for Lucas.
Before leaving, Lucas glanced at the damage report, then at her. A faint, mocking curve touched his lips.
“One point four nine million. Friend discount—call it one point four. How would you like to pay?”
Elena paused mid-motion as she started to return the jacket, teeth grinding behind a polite smile.
Friend discount. Ex-girlfriend discount, more like.
He really knew how to hold a grudge.
“Thank you,” she said lightly, “but I don’t have that kind of money right now.”
Three years ago, when she was still the untouchable Brooks heiress of Manhattan’s old-money elite, that amount would have been pocket change.
Now? Her father was in federal prison, the family empire shattered, and she was reduced to an arranged engagement just to keep creditors at bay.
Lucas’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Didn’t you find yourself a rich fiancé? He can’t even spare this for you?”
Elena stayed silent.
The man she was engaged to was, ironically, his nephew—a notorious cheapskate who wouldn’t part with a dime.
But she had her reasons.
“Elena Brooks.”
He said her name.
The first time in three years.
Lucas lifted her chin with two fingers, forcing her to meet those sharp, predatory eyes—hawk-like, unyielding.
He wanted to ask: Are you happier without me?
In the end, he lost to the shimmering moisture in her gaze.
His throat worked. “Do you still remember my phone number?”
He’d never changed it. Not once in three years.
When she didn’t answer immediately, irritation flared. He loosened his tie with a rough tug, pulled a matte-black business card from his inner pocket, and pressed it into her palm.
“Contact me within three days. Either pay the money…”
“Or pay with yourself.”
Elena stood frozen, clutching the card, watching his broad back disappear beneath the driver’s waiting umbrella as he slid into the Maybach.
The license plate—symbol of power and obscene wealth—blurred into the downpour as the car pulled away.
A cold gust whipped through her. Only then did she realize she still held his suit jacket over one arm.
She fished out her phone with her free hand and ordered a rideshare.
The car pulled up a short distance away. Just as she braced to sprint through the rain, a voice called from behind.
“Miss Brooks—you forgot your umbrella.”
An officer jogged over, holding out the large black umbrella.
Elena stared at it. It wasn’t hers.
It was the one Lucas had carried.
She glanced at the storm outside, then accepted it.
“Thank you.”
Back at her apartment, the moment she pushed open the door, her best friend Harper Light—face slathered in a sheet mask—came running, dragging her toward the TV.
“Elena! Did you see the news? Lucas Bennett is back from London!”
“They’re saying he made an absolute killing running hedge funds over there. Who would’ve thought the arrogant prodigy you dumped would turn into the most feared name on Lombard Street?”
Elena hung the suit jacket carefully on the coat rack. “I know.”
She wasn’t surprised by Lucas’s success.
She’d first heard his name in high school—during the physics competition that cost her a guaranteed Harvard admission.
Lucas Bennett had crushed her dreams that day.
And every competition after.
He was a genius. A devil. A maddening, untouchable force.
No matter how furious she got, he probably never even remembered the girl who always came in second.
The following year, on some inexplicable impulse, she changed her college choice entirely.
By the time she arrived at Stanford, Lucas—the campus legend—was already nearing his PhD at under twenty.
A child prodigy who entered an elite accelerated program at twelve, swept every major math, physics, and chemistry competition domestically and internationally.
His interests spanned research, racing, shooting, swimming—anything he touched, he mastered.
To the world, he was godlike.
To her, he’d always been unforgettable.
- Writer
