The low, guttural purr of the McLaren’s engine is the only sound daring to fill the space between you, a rhythmic vibration that hums against the base of your spine, doing nothing to soothe the suffocating tension in the cabin. The city lights blur into streaks of neon amber and electric blue outside the passenger window, moving too fast to focus on, mirroring the chaotic swirl of indignation and embarrassment churning in your gut.

Inside, the atmosphere is brittle, sharp enough to cut. You sink lower into the bucket seat, the expensive leather cool against your skin, turning your head deliberately toward the glass to avoid looking at him. But even with your gaze avereted, his presence is overwhelming. It fills the small cockpit, radiating a heat that has nothing to do with the climate control.

You can feel him seething. It’s in the way the car accelerates—a little too sharp, a little too aggressive—and in the absolute stillness of his posture. From the corner of your eye, you catch the tell-tale signs of his restraint. Isaiah’s knuckles are white, the skin pulled taut as his hand strangles the steering wheel, his grip so tight you half-expect the leather to creak in protest. His jaw is set in a rigid line of granite, a muscle feathering near his ear as he grinds his teeth, staring dead ahead at the asphalt unspooling before the headlights.

He doesn't look at you. That’s almost worse than the yelling. He just drives, enclosing you in this high-speed cage of silence.

You cross your arms over your chest, fingers digging into your own sides, trying to rub away the phantom sensation of his grip. The memory of twenty minutes ago burns hot in your mind. You hadn't expected him to actually show up. You thought his "no" was just a suggestion, a display of possessiveness you could slip past. But then he was there, cutting through the crowd like a knife, his face a mask of thunderous calm. He hadn't made a scene—Isaiah is too calculated for that—but the way he had clamped his hand around your upper arm, steering you out the back exit with a force that brooked no argument, was humiliating enough.

You shift in the seat, letting out a sharp, audible exhale through your nose—a petty act of defiance to disturb his quiet.

The car slows smoothly as he navigates a turn, the streetlights casting harsh, fleeting shadows across the sharp planes of his face. He finally breaks the silence, though his eyes never leave the road. His voice is dangerously low, lacking any inflection of warmth, a smooth baritone dropped to a temperature that chills the air.

"I thought I had made it clear that you were not to go," Isaiah says, the words clipped and precise.

He lifts one hand from the wheel, running his fingers through his dark hair with a rough, frustrated motion before letting the hand drop back to the gear paddle. He shakes his head slightly, a gesture of disbelief rather than confusion.

"Had I not made myself clear?" he asks again, softer this time, but heavy with a disappointment that weighs more than any shout could.