Dangerous Possession

Chapter 8

Mia

The car glides silently through the streets of Chicago as I stare out the window, not really seeing anything. The city lights reflect in the glass, merging with my own image, making me feel like a part of this place and yet completely disconnected from it.

I shouldn’t be here.

I shouldn’t be in this car, heading toward a home that isn’t mine, next to a man I don’t want.

Next to Jaxon.

The driver behind the wheel look forward, he not once looked at me since I got in the car he drives in silence, his gaze fixed on the road, his chiseled profile illuminated by the streetlights flashing past. His hands grip the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles slightly white, but his face remains unreadable.

Jaxon is on my side, also silent.

I hate his calmness.

I hate the way he looks so in control while I’m struggling to breathe.

The car is suffocatingly silent, heavy with everything we’re not saying. The engine hums softly, the only sound besides my breathing and the dull pounding of my heart against my ribs.

I pull my coat tighter around myself, cross my arms, and shift my gaze outside. The streets are familiar, but for the first time, they don’t bring me comfort. I know where I’m going, but I don’t know what’s waiting for me there.

Should I say something? Provoke him, maybe? Let him know I won’t break that easily?

I clench my teeth. No. I won’t give him that satisfaction.

After what feels like an eternity, the car pulls into an underground parking garage, slowing to a stop near a private elevator. The sound of the engine shutting off is deafening in the silence.

Jaxon unfastens his seatbelt and gets out without sparing me a glance. I stay still for a moment, my hands gripping my knees. Then, with a deep breath, I open the door and force myself to follow.

The air in the garage is cold, thick with the scent of gasoline and damp concrete. My heels echo against the floor as I walk toward him. He’s already standing in front of the elevator, one hand casually tucked into his pocket, the other pressing the button.

The elevator doors slide open with a metallic chime. I step inside without a word, positioning myself as far from him as possible. The doors close.

I can feel his gaze on me, but I refuse to meet it.

Our reflections stand out against the steel walls: me, arms crossed over my chest, my gaze stubbornly fixed forward; him, relaxed and confident, wearing that infuriatingly unreadable expression.

The elevator rises, a slow, steady ascent. My heart beats faster, a tightness growing in my chest. When the doors finally slide open, I realize I’ve been holding my breath.

The penthouse is massive.

Dark hardwood floors gleam under the soft lighting. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the city skyline, stretching endlessly into the night. The furniture is modern, minimalist, everything perfectly arranged. There’s nothing unnecessary, nothing out of place.

A space designed for someone like Jaxon.

A woman in her forties waits near the open-concept kitchen, her hands clasped in front of her in a formal stance. Beside her stands a tall, distinguished-looking man with thin glasses and a calm demeanor.

“Welcome, Miss Bianchi.” The woman offers me a polite smile. “My name is Teresa. I’ll be available for anything you need.”

The man beside her nods. “I’m Philip. I handle certain matters on Mr. Vance’s behalf.”

Mr. Vance.

I almost laugh at the absurdity of it all.

I don’t respond, only offering a small nod. My gaze shifts to Jaxon, who has already lost interest in the scene. He’s shrugging off his jacket, unbuttoning the first few buttons of his black shirt as if this is just another ordinary night in his perfectly controlled world.

Teresa steps forward. “Your luggage has already been brought to the bedroom.”

I don’t know whether to thank her or scream. Instead, I follow her silently down a hallway leading to another wing of the penthouse. The walls are lined with expensive artwork, the plush rugs muffling my footsteps.

When the bedroom door opens, I stop in my tracks.

The room is enormous.

A king-size bed dominates the space, covered in crisp white sheets, perfectly smoothed. A massive window overlooks the city, and the rest of the room is furnished with impeccable taste—an elegant walk-in closet, a velvet armchair near a lit fireplace, a sleek bookshelf filled with carefully selected volumes.

But the only thing I focus on is the fact that there’s only one bed.

“This is the master bedroom,” Teresa says in a neutral tone. “If you need anything, just let me know.”

I don’t respond. I simply nod again, waiting for her to leave. When the door clicks shut behind her, I finally allow myself to breathe.

I shrug off my coat and let it fall onto a chair before walking toward the window. Chicago stretches out below me, pulsing and alive. And yet, I feel trapped.

My life is no longer my own.

I turn away from the glass and move through the room, trying to shake off the unease settling in my chest. My fingers trail over the smooth surfaces of the furniture before I push open a door, revealing a bathroom larger than my old bedroom. A sunken bathtub sits in the center, surrounded by soft lighting that gives the space an almost tranquil feel.

Everything looks so perfect. But I know it’s not.

None of this is.

A sound behind me makes me turn sharply.

Jaxon steps into the room without a word.

Our eyes lock, and for a moment, time stands still.

The air shifts, growing thick, heavy.

We don’t need to speak to understand that we hate every second of this situation.

But more than that, we don’t need to speak to feel the tension pressing in around us.