The descent in the elevator was silent, the air heavy with the scent of Jason’s expensive cologne. He held my hand, his thumb tracing slow, possessive circles over my knuckles. To anyone else, it was a gesture of affection. To me, it felt like he was checking the strength of my pulse, monitoring my fear.
When the doors opened to the garage, Vance was already there, standing by the door of the sleek black Mercedes. He looked at me for a split second—a look that was entirely unreadable—before bowing his head slightly and holding the door open.
"Good evening, Mrs. Vanderbilt," Vance said.
"Good evening, Vance," I replied, my voice thin. I slid into the leather interior, the darkness of the car's cabin swallowing me. Jason climbed in beside me, and we pulled out into the neon-streaked stree
