Chloe stared at the white square of fabric, her chest heaving as rain dripped from her hair onto the pristine car floor. She reached out with a trembling hand and took the handkerchief. The fabric was impossibly soft—still warm from his body, carrying the sharp, masculine scent of cedarwood and something darker. Something dangerous.
"Thank you," she whispered, pressing it to her face. The linen soaked up rain and tears alike. When she lowered it, a bright smear of crimson stared back at her. Her cut palm had bled through. Embarrassment burned her cold cheeks. She tried to fold the stain away, painfully aware of how messy she was in this immaculate space.
Carlisle leaned back, watching her. Not her face—his dark eyes were fixed on her right hand, tracking the slow drip of blood onto the cashmere mat.
A violent shiver racked Chloe's body. The car's air conditioning was frigid, and her soaked dress clung to her skin like ice. She crossed her arms, teeth chattering.
Carlisle's jaw tightened. Without a word, he adjusted the rear temperature, then unbuttoned his custom suit jacket. He slid it off his broad shoulders and tossed it over her. The heavy wool settled around her like a shield, wrapping her in his lingering heat.
She looked up, breath catching.
"I need your name," she said, voice shaking. "So I can repay you. For the jacket. And the cleaning."
Carlisle stared at her for two long seconds. The engine hummed.
"Carlisle Holder." His voice was a low rumble that vibrated through the confined space.
Chloe's pupils shrank. Her breath hitched. The Carlisle Holder. The phantom architect of Wall Street. The CEO of LA Group—known for gutting legacy corporations without blinking. Financial news anchors called him a cold-blooded corporate butcher.
Her muscles locked. Instinctively, she slid an inch toward the door.
Carlisle caught the movement. A muscle feathered in his jaw. Irritation darkened his eyes.
"Why are the Sinclair dogs trying to drag you back to a cage?" His tone turned sharp.
Chloe bit her lower lip hard. She needed his protection, but couldn't look like a liability.
"My father is forcing me into a marriage for capital," she said steadily, omitting the fabricated sex scandal that had justified the rushed wedding to the Gray family.
Carlisle let out a short, humorless laugh. "Vincent Sinclair's desperation is making his table manners sloppy."
Before she could respond, Robert slammed the brakes. Tires screamed against wet pavement as the car swerved to avoid a drunk driver running a red light.
The violent motion threw Chloe sideways. She crashed directly into Carlisle.
His arm shot around her waist like a steel band, hauling her flush against his chest. Her cheek dragged against the rough stubble on his jaw.
For a split second, the world stopped.
Chloe's face was buried in the crook of his neck. She felt the heavy, steady thud of his heart against her ribs. Their breaths tangled—hot and frantic.
Carlisle's breath hitched. The soft, wet curves of her body pressed against him sent a jolt of pure heat straight to his core. His throat went dry. His fingers tightened on her waist, digging into the jacket's fabric.
"Sorry," Chloe gasped, scrambling back. Her face burned. The oversized jacket slipped off one shoulder, exposing pale skin.
Carlisle forced his hands open. He locked his jaw, suppressing the violent urge to pull her back. His expression blank, he reached out and pulled the jacket up. His knuckles brushed her bare collarbone—an impossibly light touch.
He looked away and pressed the intercom. "Darrien. Find out what the Sinclairs are doing at the hotel."
"Right away, sir." A minute later: "They are suppressing the news of the bride running. They are prepping a stand-in to finish the ceremony."
Chloe's stomach dropped. A stand-in. They'd finalize the marriage on paper and lock her into the contract anyway.
Rage surged through her. She clenched her fists so hard her fingernails dug into her open wound. Fresh blood seeped, stinging.
Carlisle grabbed her wrist—an iron vise. He forced her hand open, his thumb pressing into her palm to keep her fingers uncurled. With his other hand, he opened an armrest compartment and pulled out medical-grade antiseptic. He squeezed a generous amount onto her bleeding cut.
The cold gel stung, then numbed. Chloe stared at his profile—dark lashes lowered, his focus entirely on her hand. The ruthless CEO was treating her like something fragile. The walls around her heart cracked—just a fraction.
He wiped his hands clean and tossed the tissue aside.
"Do you have a safe place to go tonight?" He didn't look at her.
Chloe looked down at her bare, muddy feet. "My credit cards and trust are frozen. I have nothing."
Carlisle gazed out the window at the blurred city lights. He tapped his index finger once against his knee.
"Robert," he ordered, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Take us to the penthouse."
The car eased into traffic. Chloe pulled his jacket tighter around herself, trying to ignore the way her heart was still racing. She glanced at his reflection in the dark window—sharp jaw, unreadable eyes.
