Chapter 4
1226 Words
“I’m so worked up,” Jemson texted, thumb hovering over the screen. “You know I told you I hate parties. Urgh… I’m out.”
He had sworn he wouldn’t attend. Parties always made him tense—crowds, fake smiles, endless greetings. Just thinking about it tightened his chest. But the pressure had been relentless, and here he was, trapped in chaos he despised.
His mind flicked to the women he’d encountered. “That taller one… I felt something when our hands met,” he muttered. No. He shook his head. “Just a handshake. Nothing.”
By the time he reached the underground garage, his Italian shoes clicked sharply against the polished floor, echoing off the concrete walls. Rows of luxury cars gleamed—Porsches, Lamborghinis, Maybachs—but none caught his eye.
Only the Tesla, crouched like a panther in the corner, gleamed under the dim lights. Usually the car calmed him. Tonight, even its polished metal could not soothe the irritation in his chest.
He pressed the key fob. The Tesla chirped softly, headlights blinking. His driver, slouched in the seat, jolted awake.
“Boss,” the man mumbled, ruffling his cap.
“You’re sleeping on duty again,” Jemson said flatly.
“It’s barely 2 a.m., sir,” the driver muttered, a yawn escaping.
“No excuses,” Jemson replied, sliding into the backseat. “Just get me to the penthouse.”
“Yes, sir,” the driver said, adjusting mirrors.
Within seconds, the Tesla glided out, smooth and quiet. The city greeted them with neon streaks, faint taxi horns, the odd night wanderer moving like shadows. New York at 2 a.m.—too alive to sleep, too tired to live fully.
Jemson loosened his tie and let his head fall back. The party came rushing back—the fake laughter, the shallow chatter, the heavy perfume of ambition. He had left before it crushed him completely.
And then there was her.
His jaw clenched. No. He refused to let her occupy his thoughts. Not again.
His phone buzzed. Markus. Of course.
“Yeah?” Jemson answered.
“Jem,” Markus’s voice was smooth but sharp. “You left like a ghost. Everyone noticed.”
“I didn’t sign up to babysit sponsors,” Jemson muttered, eyes following the blur of lights.
Markus snorted. “Babysit? These people are the lifeline of every project with your name on it. Vanishing without a word tells them you don’t care.”
“I don’t,” Jemson shot back.
A pause. Markus chuckled dryly. “That’s your problem. Arrogance isn’t a brand. One day it’ll cost you. Smile, shake hands, nod… make them believe you belong.”
“I don’t need anyone to believe anything. They came to me, not the other way around,” Jemson said, clipped.
“Right. Mr. Untouchable. But disappearing without notice makes people nervous. Nervous sponsors stop writing checks.”
“I don’t chase checks,” Jemson said.
“Maybe not. But the company does. And unless you want me cleaning your mess for two weeks—”
“Markus, spare me,” Jemson cut him off sharply. “I don’t do crowds. Never will.”
Markus’s low chuckle was cautionary. “One day, Jem. You’ll see.”
The Tesla jerked violently.
“Boss!” the driver shouted, hands yanking the wheel. Jemson slammed against the seat; his phone slipped to the floor.
“What the—?” His voice cut off.
Two figures froze in the headlights. Wide-eyed. Motionless. Shadows stretched across the asphalt, unreal in the sudden glow.
The smell of wet asphalt rose from the street, mingling with the faint aroma of spilled coffee. A distant clink of cups from a nearby café echoed faintly, grounding the moment in sharp reality.
The driver’s chest heaved, hands trembling. “They just… appeared. I didn’t—”
“Pull over,” Jemson commanded, voice sharp, cold.
The Tesla eased to the curb. Engine ticking. Streetlight spilled over the figures, soft but undeniable.
Jemson leaned forward, tension coiling in every muscle. His pulse raced, skin tingling.
They moved closer. Faces finally illuminated. And he saw them clearly.
Them.
Andy and Cynthia.
His chest tightened. Heart pounding. Thoughts collided. Why here? How?
The city felt distant. Neon reflections shimmered in puddles. Steam curled from subway grates. Somewhere, faint music thumped behind closed club doors, barely registering.
The driver exhaled sharply, trembling. “They just… walked out in front of us, boss. I didn’t—”
“Stay calm. Don’t move until I say.”
Every instinct screamed at him. Adrenaline shot through his veins. His eyes locked on the two figures, slow to respond, slow to comprehend the sudden encounter.
He got down from his car, approaching the girls.
“What the hell!” Andy snapped, not realizing it was the man from earlier.
“Andy, look…” Cynthia said, leaning Andy toward her. “It’s the man from earlier.”
“Oh…wow,” Andy exclaimed.
This time, Jemson was already almost at that front, then Andy snapped at him.
“Oh…this is revenge now, right?”
“Revenge?” Jemson startled. “What do you mean?” He asked gently.
“Oh, I thought we resolved the matter already,” she said, looking him straight in the eyes. “Then, why are you still after us?” She gave him a disgusted look.
“All these rich people and their ugly behavior,” she added, adjusting her rumbled dress.
“I’m sorry, it was my driver’s fault,” he said calmly.
Andy moved closer to him. “There he goes, blaming his driver.”
The driver got down, stammering, “I—I’m so sorry, ladies. It was entirely my fau—”
Before he could finish, a loud slap cracked through the air.
Where had that come from? Everything happened suddenly, unexpectedly.
“What!” Cynthia snapped. “You shouldn’t have.”
Andy gave Cynthia a look, then turned to the driver.
“And that’s how they e*****e y’all,” she said, removing a strand of hair from her face.
She was sweating now, anger and adrenaline mingling.
“I don’t care who drove that car. You nearly hit my friend and me.” She checked Cynthia, ensuring she was unharmed. Their dresses were already soiled from the earlier coffee spill.
Jemson’s eyes flicked to her—her courage, her defiance—it tugged at something in him. For the first time tonight, he felt a spark of curiosity he couldn’t ignore.
He raised a hand, halting the driver’s frantic apologies. “Relax,” he said, calm but firm, masking the tension still humming in his chest.
His eyes returned to the girls, assessing, noting their movements, their reactions.
Then, almost casually, he spoke to the driver, but his tone brooked no argument. “Two coffee packs. Now.”
The driver blinked, startled, then nodded quickly, moving.
Andy and Cynthia exchanged a glance, unsure what to make of the calm authority in his voice. Precision. Control. Danger. And yet… civility.
Jemson leaned back slightly, pulse still racing, muscles coiled, eyes locked on them. The city lights reflected across the wet street, stretching out like liquid gold.
And in that tense stillness, one thought anchored his mind.
I can’t let anything happen to them—especially not tonight.
- Writer
