Ayla kept her eyes on the road, but her peripheral vision was hyper-aware of the man sitting behind her. She glanced at the rearview mirror. Cassius had his eyes open now, staring down at a sleek black tablet, his thumb swiping through complex financial charts. His jawline was rigid, his expression unreadable.
In the passenger seat, Marcus sat perfectly still, scanning the side mirrors with the focused patience of a hawk searching for a threat.
Ayla’s chest felt tight. She needed to extract herself from this situation before he started asking real questions.
She cleared her throat. The sound was startling in the quiet car.
“About the Maybach,” she said, keeping her voice steady and professional. “Whatever the cost, I will cover it. I just need to keep insurance and police out of this.”
Cassius’s thumb stopped moving on the tablet.
He slowly lifted his head. His dark eyes met hers in the rearview mirror, and a slow, cruel smirk touched his lips.
“That door is fitted with ballistic armor paneling that costs half a million to replace,” he said, his voice a low, mocking rumble. “You hit a tank, sweetheart, not a sedan.”
Ayla’s stomach twisted into a knot. She had the three-million-dollar check, but it was untouchable for at least a day. Admitting she had that kind of inaccessible capital would only invite more questions.
“Give me three days,” she said smoothly, her heart hammering against her ribs. “I can liquidate some assets and get you the full amount.”
Cassius closed his tablet. The soft click sounded like a gun cocking.
He leaned forward, his broad chest pressing against the back of her seat. The scent of mint and danger washed over her.
“A woman who can casually liquidate half a million dollars,” he murmured, his voice close to her ear, “is driving a stolen corporate fleet car registered to my biggest rival, and is terrified of a simple police report.”
He tilted his head. “Why are you running from Axel Farrell?”
Ayla’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white.
He was too sharp. He was dismantling her lies in real time. She needed to give him something – a piece of meat to distract him from the bone.
“I was a senior executive at Farrell Tech,” she said, letting a note of bitter resentment color her voice. “I was also his mistress. I found out he was cooking the books on the overseas accounts. When I tried to leave, he sent his security team after me. I took the car to escape.”
Cassius heard the word “mistress.”
His eyes narrowed. The lie was audacious, almost insulting. He didn’t believe the mistress part – not for a second. But the claim about Farrell cooking the books? That landed differently.
“A runaway mistress with corporate secrets,” he mused, his tone dripping with amused sarcasm. “How dramatic.”
Ayla saw the red light ahead and eased onto the brake. She turned her head and looked directly over her shoulder at Cassius.
“I know how Axel’s PR machine works,” she said, her voice sharpening with confidence. “I know his vulnerabilities. Keep the police away from me, and I will give you the strategy to crush him.”
Cassius studied her – the cheap sunglasses hiding her eyes, the wet thrift-store coat, the absolute, desperate fire radiating from every line of her posture.
He found her fascinating. Like a cornered animal that had chosen to bare its teeth instead of playing dead.
“I don’t make deals based on promises,” he said coldly. “I need collateral.”
Ayla reached into her handbag, pulled out a pen and a blank sticky note, and scribbled down the number of her burner phone. She passed the yellow paper over her shoulder.
Cassius took it. He looked at the ten digits.
Then he opened his fingers and let the paper fall to the floor mat.
“A burner phone number,” he said, his voice laced with contempt. “You think I’m an idiot?”
Ayla’s heart lurched.
“I want real collateral,” Cassius said, his eyes hardening. “Something that guarantees you won’t disappear the second I step out of this car.”
Ayla bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted copper. She had nothing else to give.
The Ford Explorer descended a steep concrete ramp into the underground VIP parking garage of the private club. Ayla pulled into a reserved spot near the private elevator and shifted into park.
Marcus stepped out immediately and opened the rear door. Cassius climbed out into the dim fluorescent light of the garage, buttoned his suit jacket, and looked down at Ayla through the open door.
“Give me something with your real name on it,” he said, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. “Or Marcus calls the NYPD right now.”
Ayla was trapped. The walls of the garage felt like they were closing in.
The cold, damp air of the underground garage drifted into the car, making Ayla shiver.
She sat frozen in the driver’s seat, staring at Cassius. He stood outside the open door – a towering wall of bespoke wool and lethal patience. He wasn’t going to blink.
Her mind raced. If she didn’t give him an ID, he would call the police, and Axel would have her in a psychiatric hold by midnight.
She unzipped the hidden compartment of her handbag. Her fingers trembled slightly as she pulled out her New York State driver’s license. She took a deep breath, stepped out of the car, and held the small plastic card toward him.
“Here. This is all I have.”
Cassius didn’t reach for it immediately. His dark eyes swept over her face, lingering on the large sunglasses hiding her expression. Then he slowly raised his hand, his black leather glove creaking softly, and pinched the edge of the license between two fingers.
He looked down at the card.
The name printed in bold black letters read: AYLA JOYCE.
Her maiden name. She had never legally changed it to Farrell – a small act of rebellion Axel had always despised.
Cassius studied the photo: a younger Ayla, without the sunglasses, looking cold and defiant. A faint, dangerous smile touched the corners of his mouth. The queen was playing dress-up.
He slipped the license into the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket.
“I’ll hold onto this until the Maybach is fully repaired,” he said, his voice smooth and devoid of warmth.
Ayla exhaled a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. She had bought herself time.
“Fine,” she said, turning back toward the driver’s seat. “I’ll contact you tomorrow to arrange the payment.”
“You misunderstand.” Cassius’s voice cracked behind her like a whip.
She turned back around.
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