Chelsea stepped out of the private elevator and into the sprawling Tribeca penthouse. The dull ache in her lower abdomen pulsed with every step she took.
She bypassed the living room and walked straight into the master bedroom. She opened the bottom drawer of the custom walk-in closet, unlocked a hidden compartment, and shoved the clinic discharge papers and prescription painkillers inside.
She closed the drawer just as footsteps approached.
Cason walked out of the open-concept kitchen. He wore a casual apron over his designer t-shirt, holding a spatula. A bright, warm smile lit up his face the second he saw her.
"You're home," Cason said.
He closed the distance and wrapped his arms around her in a tight, possessive hug. He buried his face in her neck. "Where were you all day?"
Chelsea leaned her weight against his chest.
"I had to work overtime at the PR firm in Brooklyn," she lied smoothly, her voice soft and exhausted.
Cason frowned. He kissed her forehead, his hands rubbing her back.
"You don't need to kill yourself at that job, Chels. My trust fund is more than enough for both of us."
Chelsea lowered her gaze, staring at the floorboards. She stiffened her spine, playing the part of the proud, stubborn girl from the wrong side of the tracks.
"I don't want your money, Cason. I don't want people to think I'm just some gold digger."
Cason's chest swelled. Her words fed directly into his savior complex. He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the massive marble kitchen island.
"Look," Cason said proudly, pointing to the two perfectly seared Tomahawk steaks resting on bone china plates.
Chelsea saw the lit candles and the open bottle of expensive Bordeaux. Her stomach tightened. The romantic setup screamed of physical expectations she could not fulfill tonight.
Cason poured two glasses of red wine. He handed one to her, his eyes darkening with blatant desire.
Before she could take a sip, Cason reached out. He gripped her waist, his muscles tensing as he prepared to lift her off the ground and onto the edge of the cold marble island.
Chelsea's mind raced. The doctor's strict orders about avoiding strenuous physical activity echoed in her head. She absolutely could not risk tearing her fresh surgical stitches for a fleeting moment of intimacy.
With practiced grace, she let out a soft, apologetic laugh and firmly planted her feet, gently twisting out of his grasp just before he could hoist her up.
"Wait, Cason," she murmured, stepping back and smoothing down the cheap cotton fabric of her dress. "I've been running around the city all day. I'm covered in subway grime, and I really don't want to ruin your pristine counter or your beautiful clothes."
Cason chuckled, his hands dropping back to his sides, though his gaze remained heated. He stepped closer, closing the distance she had just created. His warm lips pressed against the sensitive skin of her neck. His hands slid up her arms, resting gently on her shoulders instead.
The electronic lock on the front door suddenly emitted a loud, sharp beep.
Chelsea froze. She shoved Cason's chest hard and slid away from his embrace, her feet hitting the floor with a painful jolt.
Cason sighed in frustration. He turned his head toward the entryway.
"Who the hell is just walking in?" Cason muttered.
The heavy oak door swung open. Jackson stepped into the foyer. He held a bottle of vintage Macallan whiskey in one hand. The cold night air seemed to follow him inside.
"I was in the neighborhood," Jackson said casually, shrugging off his tailored suit jacket. "Thought I'd check on my irresponsible little brother."
Jackson looked up. His eyes scanned the living room and locked onto the kitchen island.
When Jackson saw the woman standing behind Cason, wearing the same washed-out cotton dress from the clinic, his hand jerked.
The amber liquid inside the whiskey bottle sloshed violently.
The air in the penthouse evaporated. A suffocating, dead silence crashed down on the room.
Cason, completely oblivious to the sudden drop in temperature, smiled. He walked forward and clapped his older brother on the shoulder.
"Perfect timing, Jax," Cason said cheerfully.
Jackson's jaw muscles bunched so tightly they looked ready to snap. His eyes, dark and predatory, bypassed Cason entirely and drilled into Chelsea's pale face.
Chelsea immediately shrank in on herself. She grabbed the fabric of Cason's sleeve, hiding half her body behind his back like a terrified prey animal.
Cason reached back and pulled her forward.
"Jax, I want you to officially meet Chelsea," Cason said, his voice full of pride. "She moved in with me a month ago."
The words "moved in" hit Jackson like a physical blow. The temperature in the room plummeted.
Jackson shoved past Cason. He marched toward the kitchen, his heavy footsteps echoing off the high ceilings.
He slammed the bottle of whiskey down on the marble island. The deafening crack made Chelsea flinch violently.
Jackson ignored his brother. He leaned over the counter, his face inches from Chelsea's.
"What kind of sick, twisted game did you play to crawl your way into his bed?" Jackson asked, his voice a chilling, deadpan whisper.
Cason's smile vanished. His face flushed red with instant fury. He stepped in front of Chelsea, blocking Jackson's view.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Cason roared.
