The wind whipped Ayla's hair across her face, stinging her eyes, but she didn't care. The top was down on Julian's convertible. They were tearing down the Montauk Highway, the ocean a black void to their right.
Ayla had stopped crying miles ago. Now, she just felt hollow.
Julian pulled the car into a secluded overlook, the gravel crunching under the tires. He killed the engine. The silence of the ocean rushed in to fill the space.
He lit a cigarette, the flame illuminating the sharp planes of his face for a brief second. He didn't offer her one. He just smoked, staring out at the water.
"You need a lawyer," he said.
"I have no money," Ayla replied. "Spencer controls the accounts."
"I have lawyers," Julian said. "Sharks. They eat men like Spencer for breakfast."
"Why?" Ayla turned to look at him. "Why are you doing this? You don't even like me. You think I'm a whore who sold herself."
Julian turned slowly. He exhaled a plume of smoke. "I never said I didn't like you, Ayla. I said I didn't like your choices."
He reached across the console, his hand cupping the back of her neck. His fingers were warm, rough. "And I hate seeing something valuable being treated like trash."
The touch ignited something in Ayla. A desperate need for connection. For proof that she was still alive.
She leaned across the gear shift and kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. It was a collision. She poured all her rage, her fear, her hatred into that kiss. Julian froze for a split second, then he groaned, flicking the cigarette out the window and grabbing her.
He hauled her over the console into his lap. The steering wheel dug into her back, but she didn't care. She needed the pressure. She needed the pain to know she was real.
His hands were everywhere-in her hair, gripping her waist, sliding up her thigh. He kissed her like he wanted to devour her.
"Ayla," he growled against her mouth. "If we do this... you're mine. You understand? No more Spencer. No more playing the victim."
"I'm not a victim," she panted. "Make me forget him."
And he did.
He drove her back just before dawn. The sky was bleeding gray and pink. He stopped the car a quarter mile from the gates, hidden by a line of trees.
"Go back in through the servants' entrance," he instructed. "Act normal. Gather evidence. Record everything."
Ayla nodded, reaching for the door handle.
"Ayla."
She looked back.
He leaned over and bit her lower lip, hard enough to sting. "Remember who you belong to."
Ayla touched her lip, her heart racing. "I remember."
She slipped back into the house unseen. She showered, washing away the sand and the scent of him, though his mark on her lip remained.
At breakfast, Spencer was reading the Wall Street Journal. Chloe was gone.
"Coffee," he ordered without looking up.
Ayla poured him a cup. Her hand didn't shake. She looked at the back of his neck and imagined wrapping a wire around it.
Her phone buzzed on the table.
Spencer glanced at it. "Who is texting you at seven a.m.?"
Ayla picked it up.
Sender: Julian Sterling
Image attached.
It was a photo of her, asleep in his car, her head resting on his shoulder. She looked peaceful.
Caption: Good morning, my girl.
A second text popped up immediately.
Change my name in your contacts to 'Owner'.
Ayla's face flushed hot. She quickly placed the phone face down.
"It's... a spam message," she said. "Car warranty."
Spencer snorted. "Idiot." He turned the page of his newspaper.
Under the table, Ayla unlocked her phone. She didn't change it to 'Owner'. That was too dangerous.
She changed it to Creditor.
Because she owed him. And he was going to help her collect what was owed to her.
She looked at the text again. My girl.
A small, dangerous smile touched her lips.
