Chapter Six
Ray Chen
The door shuts behind me with a sound that feels final.
Too quiet. Too solid.
The car smells expensive—leather and something darker, sharper. I don't know what I expected. Maybe noise. Maybe chaos. Maybe someone yelling at me to hurry up.
Instead, there's silence.
I sit rigid in the backseat, hands clenched in my lap, heart slamming so hard it makes my ears ring. The driver doesn't look at me. Doesn't speak. Just pulls into traffic like this is normal.
Like I do this every day.
My phone vibrates.
Unknown: Seatbelt.
I flinch and fumble with it, fingers clumsy. The click sounds louder than it should.
I stare straight ahead, watching the city slide by, my reflection faint in the tinted glass. I look… small. Too small for whatever I've stepped into.
"Where are we going?" I ask.
My voice doesn't shake. I'm proud of that.
"For dinner," he says.
The voice doesn't come from the phone.
It comes from beside me.
I suck in a sharp breath and turn my head.
Sebastian Maddox sits in the backseat like he's always been there. Suit immaculate. Expression calm. Eyes fixed on me with that same unreadable intensity that made grown men flee hallways.
He didn't raise his voice.Didn't announce himself.
He just… exists.
"I didn't see you get in," I whisper.
"I know."
That answer chills me more than anything else.
He's close. Too close. His knee brushes mine every time the car shifts lanes. I inch away instinctively, pressing myself into the door.
He notices.
Of course he does.
"Don't do that," he says quietly.
"Do what?"
"Create distance where there shouldn't be any."
My chest tightens. "You can't just—tell me what to do."
He turns his head fully then, giving me his complete attention.
The air changes.
"Yes," he says. "I can."
I swallow. "You're not my boss."
A pause.
Then—slow, deliberate—he lifts his hand.
His fingers close around my jaw.
Not roughly. Not gently.
Precisely.
His thumb presses just enough to make my breath hitch, to remind me how easily he could hurt me if he wanted to. My skin burns where he touches me.
"Look at me," he murmurs.
I don't want to.
I do.
His eyes are colder up close. Calculating. Possessive. Not angry—worse. Certain.
"You don't get to decide what I am to you," he says. "You get to decide how difficult you want this to be."
My pulse races wildly. "This is—this is wrong."
His grip tightens a fraction. Enough to sting.
"How dare you," he says softly, "breathe in another man's direction and call this wrong."
Tears sting my eyes, humiliating and unwanted. "I didn't do anything."
"I know," he replies calmly. "That's why you're still here."
The words sink in slowly, horribly.
Still here.
He releases my jaw like nothing happened, smoothing his thumb once—almost gentle—before pulling away. I gasp, air rushing back into my lungs.
"You're safe," he says.
It sounds like a promise.
It sounds like a threat.
The car stops.
He opens the door and steps out, then holds it for me. A gentleman. A monster. The contrast makes my stomach twist.
"Come," he says. "You haven't eaten."
I hesitate.
He tilts his head slightly. Patient. Unyielding.
The city watches us like it knows something I don't.
I step out.
His hand settles at the small of my back—not pushing, not pulling. Just there. Guiding. Claiming.
People glance at us. They always do when he's around. They look at me longer. Pity? Envy? Fear?
I don't know.
Inside, the restaurant falls quiet when he enters. Not completely—just enough. Chairs straighten. Voices lower. A table is cleared without being asked.
He sits across from me.
I don't touch the menu.
"I can fix him," a stupid, hopeful voice whispers in the back of my mind. He's just broken. Just lonely.
Sebastian watches me like he can hear the thought.
"You're thinking you can save me," he says.
Heat floods my face. "I—"
"You can't," he interrupts calmly. "But you'll try anyway."
The waiter arrives with soup already ordered.
Of course it is.
Sebastian leans forward slightly, eyes never leaving mine.
"And while you're trying," he continues, voice low, intimate, dangerous,"you'll learn something important, Ray."
I hold the spoon with shaking fingers.
"What?"
His gaze drops to my mouth. Lingers.
"Possession," he says, "is a language."
And I already understand too much.