The elevator descended, a silent, slow-motion coffin taking us down to the illusion of normalcy.
When the doors opened, the theatre was bathed in the soft, expectant glow of the standby screen. I walked past Jackson to the sofa, settling myself in the center, leaving him to navigate the small, significant distance between us.
He sat down immediately beside me, the cashmere throw already discarded on the floor, the earlier playful intimacy gone. He didn't reach for me. He knew I was a wire, live and humming with exposed voltage.
"I found everything I needed," I'd told him. He was calculating what that meant. Was it financial? Corporate? Or had I seen the hole in his story?
The opening credits of Tangled began to roll, the orchestral music feeling like a mocking laugh track.
"The time is up, Jay," I stated, my eyes fixed on the screen, refusing to give him the satisfaction of direct contact. "You had ten minutes. Give me the breakdown now. No mergers. No corporate jargon. Tell me what my father is really up to right now."
He took a slow, deep breath, the sound loud in the quiet room. It wasn't the sound of fear, though. It was the sound of a man steeling himself for an impossible gambit.
"Belinda, there's a reason I didn't want to rush this," he began, his voice low and rich. "The details are... complex. They are highly personal, and they touch on things that will make this transition messier than either of us anticipated."
I finally turned to him, my gaze a dead weight. "I don't care about mess, Jay. I live in the mess my father created. Tell me where he is. Tell me why you've turned my house into a tactical holding cell."
He leaned in, his eyes intense, not with the lie, but with a sudden, devastating sincerity that was almost worse than the truth.
"I can give you the report by sunrise, Bel. I need the network access at the office to pull the real files. But I need you to trust me for tonight." He reached out and cupped my cheek, his thumb brushing over the cooling bruise.
"And to show you exactly how much I'm willing to give you, I'm not going to give you a report tonight. I'm going to give you my family."
My composure faltered. I didn't move my head from his touch, but the silence stretched, heavy and dangerous.
"What are you talking about?" I asked, the question clipped.
Regardless of what he says next I'm still counting down the 10min I gave him.
"Tomorrow is my father's birthday," he said, the corner of his mouth turning up in a genuine, nervous smile. "Every year, my parents host a huge, incredibly boring, all-day affair at the estate. I've always protected them from this life, from the dirt and the blood, and I've never brought a partner home."
He let the silence hang, letting the weight of that statement sink in: I've never brought a partner home. It was the ultimate confession of intimacy, the ultimate promise of longevity.
"I want to take you tomorrow," he finished, his eyes piercing mine. "We'll leave before dawn. We'll spend the day with them. You'll see where I came from, you'll see the life I built this one to protect. It's the ultimate distraction, yes, but it's also the ultimate trust. It's an act of surrender, Bel."
He knew exactly what he was doing. He was not only attempting to make me forget my anger…he was attempting to tether me to him with the strongest knot in his arsenal. He was offering me a piece of his real self, the man beneath the CEO and the operative. The implication was clear: Why would I kill your father and risk the company if I'm planning on introducing you to my mother?
The idea was absurd, domestic, and utterly manipulative. I could see the strings, but the bait was tempting. A day without guards, without lies, a day spent dissecting his past while he thought he was securing our future. And, crucially, a way out of this locked-down house without a fight.
I looked at the screen, where Rapunzel was wistfully singing about seeing the floating lanterns.
"Your mother," I repeated, tasting the word. "Does she wear cashmere and approve of corporate espionage?"
He laughed, a relieved, genuine sound. "She wears a gardening hat and approves of me being on time for Sunday dinner. Please, Bel. Say yes. We'll go. We'll come back tomorrow night, and I will give you every single file you asked for."
I considered the options. Fighting him now, in this theater, would mean escalating to violence, alerting his men, and potentially compromising the entire corporate takeover. Going with him meant a strategic retreat, a chance to observe him on neutral ground, and a confirmation of his loyalty…or a chance to execute him far from my home.
"Fine," I said, a slow, predatory smile finally touching my lips. "But I will be choosing the dress. And the escape route."
"I wouldn't have it any other way B."
I leaned into him, letting my head rest on his shoulder. This wasn't comfort…it was proximity. I needed to feel the slow, steady beat of the heart that had just executed the most audacious lie of my life. I needed to be close enough to gauge the slightest shift in his muscles, the smallest hitch in his breathing.
Time Elapsed on Jackson's Report: 00:06:55.
I didn't speak. I watched the princess locked away, naive and trusting. The irony was so sharp it almost made me laugh.
Jackson was relaxed, watching the film with an almost childlike focus, his guard down in the intimacy of the dark room. He thought he had outmaneuvered me. He thought the gentle rhythm of the evening would lull my suspicions to sleep.
The timer in my mind was louder than the movie's score.
00:08:30.
I shifted, lifting my head from his shoulder. I turned to face him in the dim light, placing a hand against his chest.
"I can't concentrate," I whispered, my voice low and husky, entirely authentic in its distress…though the distress wasn't about the cartoon.
"What is it?" he murmured, leaning closer, already preparing the comforting words. "Still worried about your father?"
My father, the man you did who knows what to…
"It's just... I hate waiting," I confessed, my thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "You're all tight. Tense. Even here."
I slid my hand lower, finding the hard ridge of his erection, barely contained by his trousers. His breath hitched—a silent, satisfying victory.
"Bel, we're watching a movie," he chuckled, a nervous, deep sound.
"I need you relaxed first," I whispered, my lips brushing the shell of his ear. "I need you to forget about the perimeter outside and the reports and the lies."
I let my fingers do the talking, their practiced, deliberate pressure erasing the boundaries of his professionalism. His eyes, fixed on the screen, glazed over, the images of Rapunzel losing their meaning.
"Five minutes," I dictated, my voice a low command only he could hear. "Give me five minutes of silence, and I'll give you five minutes of pure forgetfulness."
I didn't wait for his answer. I moved with purpose, the silk dress sliding effortlessly to the floor. Jackson's surprise dissolved into sheer, immediate hunger. He was weak with desire, and I seized the opportunity, pulling him down onto the soft carpet in front of the sofa.
My movements were calculated. I took my time, focusing the raw, electric surge of my fury into an act of overwhelming devotion. I used my lips, my hands, my skill, making him gasp, making him shudder, demanding total control over his body's response. It wasn't about pleasure…it was about submission. I was tying him up with sensation, making him vulnerable, erasing the calculating CEO and replacing him with a desperate, mindless animal.
I looked up at him through my lashes, the glow from the screen illuminating my face as I worked. His eyes were closed, his head thrown back against the sofa cushion, a low moan caught in his throat.
He was entirely mine.
Time Elapsed: 00:10:00.
The imaginary clock in my head stopped. The ten minutes had expired. Jackson's report was overdue. And he was incapable of delivering it.
With a final, devastating surge of focused attention, I brought him to the edge, then pushed him over. The force of his release was palpable, a weak, helpless shudder that left him momentarily boneless, panting heavily on the floor.
I lifted my head, my eyes meeting his. He was stunned, euphoric, and utterly drained.
"Damn B..." he managed to pant, his voice thick and ruined. He tried to pull me close, but I held myself back, sitting up slowly, gracefully.
I retrieved my purse from the sofa, pulling out the secure burner phone. I looked at the screen, which was still displaying the fatal words from Lola.
"The report," I said, my voice perfectly even, devoid of the passion I had just exhibited. I held the phone up for him to see, the light reflecting off the deadly text. "You said you haven't forgotten about the ten minutes, Jackson."
I let the silence stretch, watching the haze of pleasure drain from his eyes, replaced by dawning horror as he realised the truth…this wasn't foreplay. This was an interrogation.
"You're late," I stated, my voice flat and cold. "And I already have the final, unfiltered report."
His eyes dropped to the burner, scanning the visible text. The word "missing" and the word "orchestrator" would be the only ones he needed.
I smiled, a cold, terrifying expression that didn't reach my eyes. "Why don't you start over, Jackson. Start with the part where you got rid of my father. I'm a patient girl. I'll wait. Oh and don't forget the part where you lied about it."
Why did he think I wouldn't find out? I knew he underestimated me but I didn't think he thought I was an idiot as well.
Jackson's POV
She knows…