The headquarters gradually returned to its usual rhythm after the initial chaos of that night. At least, everyone else did.
Arora couldn't.
Every time she walked down a corridor, she found herself wondering if the golden-haired idiot had finally realized what kind of place he'd been dragged into. Every time she passed the residential wing, she expected to hear shouting, demands, or at the very least a desperate escape attempt.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
And it drove her out of her mind.
Three days passed. Then five. Then a full week.
During that time, Jack had made his single, monitored phone call to his "college roommate" to explain his sudden absence, claiming he was taking a last-minute getaway. Since then, he had settled into his high-security room with absurd ease. No panic. No fear. No anger.
Arora had held politicians, rival syndicate heads, and corrupt businessmen in these rooms over the last two years. Every single one of them had reacted predictably—some begged, some wept, some made empty threats, and others tried to pick the locks.
Jack did none of those things. He acted like he was staying at a boutique hotel in downtown Chicago.
One evening, after wrapping up a tense strategy meeting with district leaders, Arora found herself stepping toward the guest wing. She told herself she was just confirming he wasn't secretly picking the electronic door locks. It had nothing to do with curiosity.
The security lounge was quiet when she pushed the door open, bathed in the warm amber glow of a single corner lamp.
And there he was.
Jack sat comfortably on the leather sofa, a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and a paperback in the other, looking like he owned the floor.
Arora stopped at the threshold.
Jack looked up, and his face lit up with immediate, unfiltered warmth. "Baby!"
Arora closed her eyes, taking a slow breath. "You are going to stop calling me that."
"No," he said simply.
Her brow twitched. "I am telling you now."
"You sound angry."
"I am angry."
Jack considered this with grave seriousness, giving a thoughtful nod. "Understandable."
Arora stared at him. Most men in the city broke eye contact within three seconds when she looked at them like this. Jack somehow became even more relaxed.
"What are you doing?" she demanded, folding her arms.
"Reading."
"I can see that."
"Then why did you ask?"
For a fraction of a second, Arora seriously contemplated taking the book and hurling it out the sixth-floor window. Instead, she stepped further into the room. "You seem very comfortable for a hostage."
Jack glanced around the spacious room. "Should I not be?"
"You're being held against your will."
"Oh," he said, looking genuinely surprised. "As it turns out, I keep forgetting."
Arora blinked. "How do you forget that?"
Jack shrugged lightly. "Nobody's tied me back to a chair, and your staff keeps bringing me fresh espresso. It's a solid setup."
Despite herself, a faint breath escaped her nose—almost a laugh, but she cut it off instantly. Crossing the room, she sat in the armchair opposite his couch. The movement caught him off guard; his bright blue eyes widened slightly.
"Don't get used to it," she warned coldy.
"Too late."
Arora let out a muted sigh. Every conversation with him felt like stepping into an invisible trap. Not a dangerous one, but an infuriating one designed to strip away her authority layer by layer.
Silence settled between them, filled only by the soft pitter-patter of Chicago rain against the glass. Jack returned to his book, while Arora found herself studying him in the dim light.
He didn't have the posture of a victim. His shoulders were relaxed, his breathing even.
"You're strange," she said, the words slipping past her guard before she could stop them.
Jack didn't look up from his page. "I get that a lot."
"I mean it. Most people would have tried bribing the guards or breaking out by now."
"Maybe," Jack murmured, turning a page. "Or maybe I just don't think you're bad people."
The answer came too easily. Too naturally.
Arora's eyes narrowed. "That's a dangerous assumption to make about the Black Rose."
Jack finally looked up, his expression clear and disarming. "Am I wrong?"
She didn't answer immediately. The Black Rose wasn't innocent—they enforced territory, dealt in violence when pushed, and ruled through cold precision. But they didn't deal in human collateral, and they didn't terrorize civilians. They operated in the grey space most people spent their lives pretending didn't exist.
Jack closed his book with a soft snap, resting it on his knee. "Can I ask you something?"
"No."
"You didn't even hear the question."
"The answer is still no."
"That's cold."
Arora rolled her eyes. "What?"
Jack hesitated. For the first time since she had met him, the playful glaze over his eyes shifted, revealing something remarkably sharp underneath. His gaze swept over her face, noting the faint shadow beneath her eyes and the slight tension in her jaw.
"Do you ever actually sleep?" he asked softly. "Or do you just run this empire until you collapse?"
The question caught her completely off guard. It wasn't standard flirting, nor was it a captive probing for weakness. It was an observation—precise, intuitive, and strangely personal.
Arora stared at him, her guard flaring back up instantly. "My schedule is none of your business."
Jack immediately smiled, the sharp focus vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. "Just checking. You looked like you needed about three days of sleep and a vacation."
He went back to his book, but the lingering impression remained.
Arora studied him in silence for a few more seconds, unsettled by the realization that while she had been evaluating him, he had been quietly reading her.
She stood abruptly, smoothing down her dark coat. "I have work to finish."
Jack offered a small wave. "Good luck with the empire."
She walked toward the door, then paused at the frame, her back still turned to him. "You really aren't afraid of what happens to you here?"
Jack looked up one last time. The grin was gone, replaced by a soft, genuine expression. "Should I be?"
Arora held his gaze through the reflection in the glass door for a beat, offered no answer, and stepped out into the corridor.
As she walked back toward her executive suite, her heels clicking against the polished stone, the conversation replayed in her head. His ease, his sharp eyes, his complete lack of self-preservation—none of it fit together.
She looked back down the long hallway toward the residential wing one last time.
This guy is going to be trouble, she thought.
She just didn't realize yet how right she was.
Two weeks later...