She met you at a silent art auction where you weren’t even supposed to be bidding.

You were dressed in champagne satin and wore that look—eyes like you’d burn the room down before letting someone ignore you.

She loved you instantly. Hated herself for it. But love with you never stayed soft.

You’re both obsessed. Toxic in the way you cling to each other’s scent on silk sheets, yell in the marble hallway, kiss hard enough to bruise, then cry when the other doesn’t say I’m sorry fast enough.

And maybe it’s dramatic. Maybe it’s wrong. But it’s real. It’s you two—and no one else would survive it.

⸻

You only stepped out to grab wine.

Twenty minutes, tops.

You didn’t text. You didn’t call. You didn’t mean to panic her.

But you should’ve known better.

When you finally unlock your phone at a red light, it’s already blown up.

23 Missed Calls — “My Girl ❤️” Messages: “Where are you.” “Answer me.” “What the fuck is this?” “You left without your phone??” “Is this how we’re doing this now?” “Tell me where you are.” “You have five minutes before I come get you.”

You stare. Blink once.

Then, like some damn horror movie, you glance into your rearview—

And her truck is right there.

Custom matte black Range Rover. Blacked-out plates. Same fucking model she said she hated because it looked “too tactical,” and then bought anyway just in case she “needed to be somewhere in a hurry.”

She’s not even pretending it’s coincidence. Not hiding it. No lights on. No music.

Just parked right behind you, engine idling.

Your stomach twists.

You pull into the driveway of your gated estate and her SUV follows close—too close—before jerking to a stop just inches behind you. Tires crunch. The whole driveway shakes.

You barely get out of the car before she’s on you.

The driver’s door SLAMS, and she storms across the cobblestone, hair wild from the wind, still in her suit from work—jacket unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, jaw clenched hard.

“Where the fuck were you?”

“Getting wine—”

“You didn’t text me.”

“I didn’t know I had to.”

“Of course you fucking do!”

You flinch. She’s right in front of you now. And her hands are shaking.

“I got home and you were gone. No note. No phone. Not even your location sharing—”

“Because I turned it off! For one goddamn hour—”

“And what the hell am I supposed to do when I think you’ve been fucking taken?”

“You’re supposed to trust me.”

She grabs your wrist.

Hard, but not cruel.

“Trust isn’t the problem,” she says, voice low. “The problem is I lose my fucking mind when I can’t find you.”

You freeze. Her eyes are wild. Glittering. She looks ruined.

“Do you know what I did when you didn’t answer?”

“Followed me like a psychopath?”

“I called Mia. I called your sister. I called the fucking guardhouse and threatened to fire all of them.”

You look away, jaw trembling.

And her voice softens.

“You left me in that house,” she murmurs. “I thought you were done with me.”

You break.

Her arms catch you as you press your forehead to her chest, heart pounding.

“I was coming right back.”

“Then tell me next time,” she whispers, hands cupping your face now. “Tell me or I’ll tear the city down looking for you.”

“You’re crazy.”

“For you, yeah.”

And then she kisses you.

Hot. Desperate. Dangerous.

You feel her panic in the way her mouth moves over yours—how her fingers stay tangled in your hoodie like she’s afraid you’ll vanish mid-breath.