Grace didn't even notice how John reacted to her words—until his gaze darkened. A cold glint flickered in his eyes.
A twinge of fear crept up her spine. Now that she knew who he was, he felt even more untouchable.
She had just danced on his last nerve. But she had no choice.
She needed to keep her distance to protect her job.
Just as uncertainty gripped her, John suddenly let go of her waist. The warmth of his touch vanished, replaced by a rush of cold air. Grace exhaled in relief.
His expression was unreadable as he met her eyes. "Then I'll be expecting you, Ms. Quinn."
With that, he turned, slinging his coat over his shoulder. His strides were long and unhurried, radiating confidence.
He stopped in front of her, raising a hand to trace her cheek. His touch was hot, rough against her skin. A dangerous glint flashed in his gaze.
"Miss. Quinn," he murmured, voice low and deliberate, "it's not so easy to satisfy me. I'm looking forward to your performance."
Her pulse quickened. She could feel it—he was angry.
Even after sending Alex Hoffman away, she had somehow stepped into an even bigger mess.
The next day, Grace was lost in thought. Her mood was off, enough that her friend Kathy started to worry.
As night fell, the campus emptied. The last of the lights flickered out, leaving the grounds eerily silent.
By the time she finally left school, it was already past eight.
The surrounding darkness felt vast. Isolated.
She got into her car, ready to start the engine, when her phone lit up with an incoming call, the name rarely showed on her phone, Mr. Walton.
"Alex Hoffman is about to get engaged to your sister. Please respect yourself and stop pestering him."
And then, he hung up.
Grace scoffed. How ridiculous.
For a second, she had thought—just maybe—he was calling to check on her.
Of course not.
It was never about her. Only about his precious, legitimate daughter, even though she is his daughter too.
The pain hit hard, settling deep in her chest.
She gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white.
Her gaze drifted to the contact name on her screen: [Father of Jimmy].
John Amster.
His avatar was an image of a dagger plunged into the earth. The blade gleamed coldly, only half-visible, buried deep.
Just like him—dangerous, sharp, impossible to grasp fully.
She had expected him to reach out after last night. But their last conversation remained untouched.
Scrolling up, their chat history was nothing but cold, impersonal texts. Room numbers. Brief words. "I'm here." "Come up."
No small talk. No attachment. Their relationship had been less than casual, yet somehow, they had been closer than anyone.
Grace had never wondered about his real life. She had never let herself care.
Now, for some reason, she hesitated.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She wasn't even sure what she wanted to say.
Then—her thumb slipped.
An emoji was sent by accident.
Her face turned beet red.
Panic surged as she quickly deleted it. Maybe he didn't see—
Her phone buzzed.
A new message popped up.
-Miss. Quinn, I saw it.
Her breath hitched.
She stared at the screen, heat rushing up her neck. There was no explaining this.
Deciding to ignore him, she turned the key in the ignition.
The headlights flicked on—illuminating a figure standing right in front of her car.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Lean muscle wrapped in effortless strength.
Too familiar.
Before she could make out his face, he lifted his phone and waved it at her.
Grace: …
Her stomach dropped.
This was truly awkward.
He stood right in her path, blocking any hope of escape.
As he strode toward her with long, deliberate steps, she did the only thing she could think of—she locked the car doors.
Tap. Tap.
She glanced up. Through the window, John met her gaze, amusement dancing in his eyes.
Then he lifted his phone again.
The screen was in landscape mode, displaying a single flashing line in his notes app:
-Are you checking on me or missing me?
Grace's entire face went up in flames.
She curled her toes, fighting the overwhelming urge to disappear.
When she didn't move, he changed tactics.
A new message popped up.
-Sweetie, open the door and let me in.
A simple sentence. Ordinary. But the memories it dragged up made her stomach twist.
That was several months ago, she had reached out. Invited him over. But her messages had disappeared into silence. No replies. No explanations.
She had almost deleted his contact. Almost erased him from her life.
Then, at 3 a.m. that night, her phone had rung.
A voice call.
His voice had come through, deep and rough with exhaustion. "Come down."
"I'm in the garage under your building."
Without thinking, she had grabbed a thin silk nightgown and rushed down.
In the dimly lit garage, an off-road vehicle had been parked in the shadows.
The driver's window had been lowered. A muscular arm rested casually against the frame.
A cigarette burned low between his fingers, the ember glowing in the dark.
When he saw her, he stubbed it out.
The car had been massive, and modified beyond its original design. It had looked wild. Unruly. Just like its owner.
She hadn't even spoken before the door swung open—
And John had pulled her inside.
Click.
The doors locked.
The garage was dark. The air thick with tension.
Grace had barely caught her breath before she was pressed against his solid chest.
John had worn a black shirt, half-unbuttoned, his collar slightly askew. He had looked wrecked, his usual sharpness dulled by exhaustion. Yet somehow, it had only made him more dangerous.
His fingers had tilted her chin up. His voice had dropped to a husky murmur.
"Did you miss me?"
The way he had said it—deep, lazy, knowing—sent a shiver through her.
She had blushed, instinctively understanding his meaning.
Still, she hadn't lied. "Yes."
That was the whole point of their arrangement. She had never hidden it.
John had chuckled, low and hoarse, sending warmth curling through her stomach.
His gaze had drifted to her nightgown.
She had rushed down in a hurry, forgetting to grab a robe. The silk had been thin—too thin—barely covering anything.
His eyes had darkened. The air between them had shifted.
Heat. Tension. An unspoken pull.
He had leaned in, his lips brushing against her neck.
"Don't…"