The Runaway Heiress Returns For Revenge

The heavy door closed, shutting out the storm and sealing them inside. The silence in the car was immediate and suffocating.

Adelina pressed herself against the far-left door, creating as much distance as the wide backseat would allow. Gage settled in the middle, a formidable presence of cold wool and colder indifference. On his right, Ferne Brady snuggled against his side, resting her head on his shoulder with a proprietary air.

The car's heating system was on full blast. As the interior warmed, the perfume-her perfume-bloomed in the enclosed space. The scent of cedar and rose was no longer a faint whisper; it was a thick, cloying cloud that clung to the air, to the leather, to the back of Adelina's throat.

Her stomach churned again. She felt a desperate need for fresh air, for something to cut through the suffocating fragrance. She pressed the button to lower her window. It slid down an inch, letting in a welcome sliver of cold, damp air.

Gage's head turned slightly. He didn't look at her. He simply reached forward and pressed a button on the master control panel. Her window slid shut with a decisive thud. A soft click indicated he had engaged the child locks.

Adelina whipped her head around to glare at him. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I'd rather you didn't get sick all over my ten-thousand-dollar leather seats," he said, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. His voice was flat, bored.

Ferne giggled, a high, tinkling sound that grated on Adelina's nerves. She ran a perfectly manicured hand down the silk of his tie. "You're always so meticulous, darling."

Adelina turned away, staring out at the gridlocked traffic on the Queensboro Bridge. A fresh wave of despair washed over her. She was trapped.

From the corner of her eye, she could see Gage's reflection in the rain-streaked window. He wasn't looking at the road. He was looking at her reflection, his gaze intense and unwavering. He was watching the way her lips, pale and bloodless, trembled slightly from the cold.

So quietly she almost didn't see it, his finger moved on the climate control panel. He raised the temperature in her zone by two degrees.

A moment later, Ferne shifted. "It's getting a little warm in here," she complained, her fingers moving to the top button of his overcoat.

Gage's hand came up, intercepting hers. He didn't flinch, but Adelina saw a flicker of something-annoyance? disgust?-in his eyes. "I was in the rain," he said, his voice smooth again. "I'd rather not catch a chill."

The words "in the rain" snagged Adelina's attention. Her gaze drifted to his left shoulder. The dark wool of his coat was soaked through, a stark contrast to the dry fabric on his right. He had taken the brunt of the storm for her. Why?

The driver's voice came from the front. "Mr. Evans, shall I drop Miss Brady at her apartment in Tribeca first?"

"I want to come with you to Starlight," Ferne pouted, her voice a practiced whine. "I want to see you in action."

"Take her to Tribeca," Gage said. The warmth was gone from his voice, replaced by a blade of ice. It was an order, sharp and non-negotiable.

Ferne froze, the sudden shift in his tone clearly startling her. She opened her mouth to argue, then seemed to think better of it. She simply nodded, a wounded look on her face.

Adelina watched, a cold, bitter amusement rising in her. This was the game. The hot and cold, the push and pull. The classic playbook of a man who saw women as disposable accessories.

The Rolls-Royce pulled up smoothly in front of a sleek, modern high-rise in Tribeca. As Ferne prepared to leave, she leaned in close to Gage, pressing a deliberate, theatrical kiss to his cheek. It left behind a smear of bright red lipstick.

Gage didn't move. He didn't react at all. But his eyes, cold and dark, never left Adelina's.

She forced herself to look away, her hands twisting together in her lap so tightly her nails dug into her palms.

The door closed, and Ferne was gone.

The atmosphere in the car instantly dropped ten degrees. The silence was no longer just quiet; it was heavy, charged with three years of unspoken anger.

Gage reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a silk handkerchief. With a look of profound distaste, he wiped the lipstick from his cheek, then tossed the stained square of silk into the small, built-in trash receptacle.

The silence stretched. Finally, Adelina broke it, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "If you find her so repulsive, why bother putting on such a convincing show for the cameras?"

He turned his head slowly, and for the first time, he looked directly at her. His eyes were like dark tunnels, and she felt a terrifying pull, a sense of falling into something deep and dangerous.

"Because in the real world, Adelina," he said, his voice a low, rough murmur, "we play for stakes, not for feelings."

He leaned across the seat, his movement sudden and fluid. He braced one hand on the door next to her head, the other on the seat beside her thigh, trapping her. His body was a wall of heat and power, his scent-a mix of rain, wool, and something that was just him-overwhelming her senses.

Her back was pressed hard against the cold window. Her heart, which had been beating a steady, angry rhythm, suddenly hammered against her ribs, wild and out of control.