The lighting inside was soft, warm — like a lounge on wheels. His left arm still in a sling, his suit gray this time, his expression unreadable.
"Gabriella," he said, like we were bumping into each other at a coffee shop.
"What the fuck," I breathed. "What the actual fuck is this?"
He didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. "You're okay."
"You kidnapped me!"
He gestured calmly to the seatbelt. "Please buckle up. I don't like chaos in my car."
"You think this is a joke? Do you even understand what you just did?"
"I do. I just didn't think asking you nicely would get me far."
I was shaking. From fear, rage, the crash of adrenaline—or maybe all three.
"I could have a panic attack right now. I could call the police."
"You left your phone on the ground."
"You're insane," I spat.
"And you're exhausted," he said quietly. "And unraveling."
My breath caught.
That… felt like a knife pressed to something I wasn't ready to name.
"You've been walking around like you're made of glass. But when you were with me in that ER, you didn't break. You showed up. You stayed calm."
"So this is some test?" I snapped.
"No," he said, more softly. "It's an offer."
I stared at him, jaw tight.
"What kind of offer requires kidnapping?"
He looked out the window briefly before turning back to me.
"I want you to work for me. Not the hospital. Me. Personal nurse. Discreet. Part-time. You'd be compensated well beyond your current wage, and… you wouldn't have to be in that place anymore."
I wanted to scream. Or hit him. Or cry.
Instead, I laughed—bitter and cracked. "You could've sent a fucking email."
"You would've deleted it."
"Because I don't want to see you."
He leaned closer then, his voice lower, more dangerous. "You do. You've just been pretending you don't."
The words hit like a slap.
I turned away, blinking back something that felt too much like heat behind my eyes.
"Why me?"
He paused. "Because when I opened my eyes in that ER, I saw you first. And you didn't flinch."
I hated that he remembered.
Hated it even more than I did.
I looked away, out the window, back at the street we'd come from. I didn't even know where we were. The quiet hum of the car made the moment feel too still, too intimate, like we were suspended in some reality I hadn't agreed to enter.
"You have a wife," I said finally, my voice flat.
His face went serious. "She's not part of this."
I swallowed hard.
"Any amount you want," he continued.
I scoffed, but it came out quieter than I meant.
"She's still a person. And I'm not in for any silly games."
"She's a Langton, if that's what you're asking," he replied, and when I looked over at him, I finally saw it. The shift in his eyes. The distance behind the word wife. Like it was a title he was contractually obligated to say but hadn't meant in years.
She wasn't his anything. Not really.
Just a name the tabloids loved. A hand on his arm for public dinners. A legacy alliance, if I had to guess. His face said the rest—there was no warmth there when he said she. Not even anger. Just indifference dressed in expensive threads.
His eyes came to mine. "Name your number. Any amount."
"And what would I be agreeing to exactly?" I asked, arching a brow. "Changing your bandages? Monitoring your meds? Or playing nurse in front of your wife for the cameras?"
His mouth curved—but it wasn't amusement. It was interesting. Controlled. Measured. A spark lit beneath glass.
"You'll be with me. That's all that matters. A nurse. A presence. Someone I trust in a house full of people paid to pretend."
"That sounds… safe."
"I never promised safe," he said, his voice lower now, leaning into something dangerous. "I promised control."
I felt that. Between my ribs. In the back of my throat.
"Why me?" I asked again, not hiding the tremble in it.
His eyes didn't leave mine.
"I'm not what you think I am," I said.
"Good," he said smoothly. "I've had enough of people who are exactly what they seem."
The car slowed at a red light. The silence between us thickened. I looked down at my hands, still faintly trembling. Not from fear, not anymore. But from the weight of whatever this was becoming.
I inhaled slowly.
"We're not making decisions tonight," I said, trying to push air back into my lungs. "I need to think. I need space. And I go home. On my terms."
He didn't argue. Just nodded once.
"I'll have a contract sent to you in the morning. Everything is spelled out. Boundaries. Duties. Compensation. And you'll decide."
That startled me more than anything else—his willingness to wait.
We finally came to an agreement, and I'd think it through.
No more words were exchanged when they led me out of the dark road where the sleek black car had stopped. One of the men opened the door to the first car—the same one they'd shoved me into earlier—and waited as I climbed back in, breath shaky and pulse still erratic.
Like nothing had happened. Like I wasn't unraveling inside.
It was a different driver now. No mask. Just unreadable eyes and silence as thick as my own disbelief. My eyes dropped to the seat beside me—my bag, waiting like it never left.
My phone buzzed softly, screen lighting up with a missed message from Maya. Probably wondering where the hell I was.
I didn't answer it.
The car moved through the city like it was gliding underwater. I rested my head back against the seat and stared out the window, trying to will my heartbeat into something slower, something steadier. But my brain wouldn't stop replaying his words. That voice. That calm, controlled certainty.
"I never promised safe. I promised control."
And I hadn't said no.
The house appeared too soon. Familiar and surreal all at once. My fingers fumbled over the door handle before I stepped out onto the pavement. The air was colder than I remembered. Or maybe I was just finally feeling it.
The car didn't wait.
I watched it disappear down the street—quiet, deliberate, like it had just dropped off a package instead of a person with tremors under her skin and an offer twisting like smoke in her chest.
Inside, the house was still.
I didn't go to bed. Not right away. I stood at the kitchen counter, staring down at my shaking hands. Withdrawal gripped my bones again—harder tonight. Like my body knew I was slipping further from what I'd been holding onto. My head pulsed, my skin crawled, and the memory of being in that car—with him—looped endlessly behind my eyes.
I should've screamed.
I should've been furious.
But the worst part was…I wasn't sure if I wanted to leave.
And that scared me more than any of it.