Chapter 7 7

The wind from the helicopter blades was a physical assault. Cinnamon fell to her knees, shielding her eyes from the flying gravel. Chase was screaming, clutching his ears, teetering dangerously on the edge.

The helicopter didn't hover. It landed swiftly on the far side of the helipad, its engines whining down but not off. The door slid open.

Arturo stepped out, followed by two men in sharp suits who were clearly his personal security. He didn't run. He walked toward the scene with a chilling calm, his suit jacket unbuttoned and flapping in the residual wind. He stopped a good thirty feet away, a predator assessing his territory.

Chase saw him. His face twisted into a snarl of pure hatred. "You! You stole her!"

Arturo ignored him completely. His eyes were locked on Cinnamon. He gave a sharp, almost imperceptible nod to one of his men, who began to circle slowly to the left.

"She's mine!" Chase shrieked, waving the box cutter. He took a shuffling step toward Cinnamon.

"Is she?" Arturo's voice cut through the wind, cold and measured. "Look at her, Chase. She came up here, but she's not looking at you. She's looking at me. She always will."

A news drone, which had been circling, now hovered twenty feet away, its red light a malevolent eye. Arturo glanced at it, then back at Chase. The gears in his mind were turning, seeing not just a threat, but an opportunity. A public display of control. A way to dominate the news cycle and bury the SEC story under a wave of heroic drama.

"Liar!" Chase screamed.

"You offer her a jump into nothing. I offer her the world," Arturo continued, taking another deliberate step forward. "You think this is about love? This is about power. And you have none."

The psychological attack worked. Chase's focus shifted entirely to Arturo. He lunged away from the ledge, charging at him with the box cutter raised.

Arturo didn't move. He stood his ground. Just as Chase closed the distance, the security guard who had been circling tackled him from the side, a brutal, efficient move that sent Chase sprawling onto the gravel. The box cutter skittered away.

The second guard was on him in an instant, pinning him, while the first retrieved the weapon. It was over in seconds. Clean. Professional. No heroics.

Cinnamon was shaking so hard her teeth chattered. She stared at Arturo, who was calmly adjusting his cuffs as his men secured the threat. He looked up and saw the drone.

He turned to Cinnamon. His eyes were dark, burning with an emotion she couldn't name. Anger? Relief? Calculation.

He strode toward her. He didn't ask if she was okay. He didn't hug her.

He grabbed her face with both hands, his grip bordering on painful.

"Look at me," he commanded.

She stared up at him, her eyes wide.

And then he kissed her.

It wasn't a romantic kiss. It was a branding. His lips crashed onto hers with bruising force. He tasted of copper and adrenaline. He kissed her like he was trying to consume her, to inhale her soul so that no one else could ever touch it.

Cinnamon gasped against his mouth, her hands clutching his shirt for balance. For a moment, the world stopped. The wind, the noise, the fear-it all vanished, replaced by the overwhelming reality of him.

The drone hovered, broadcasting the image to millions of screens. WattsKiss was trending before they even broke apart.

Arturo pulled back, but he didn't let go of her face. He pressed his forehead against hers, his breathing ragged.

"You are mine," he growled, low enough that only she could hear. "Your life belongs to me. You do not get to die without my permission. Do you understand?"

Cinnamon looked at him. She felt a strange, twisted cocktail of shame and safety. "I understand."

He took off his jacket and threw it over her head, shielding her from the camera. He wrapped his arm around her waist, lifting her off her feet, and carried her toward the helicopter.

Behind them, Chase was screaming her name as the police, finally arriving on the roof, dragged him into the stairwell.

Inside the helicopter, the noise was deafening. Arturo sat her down and buckled her in. He sat next to her, his thigh pressing against hers. He took her hand and interlaced their fingers, squeezing so hard her bones ground together.

As the helicopter lifted off, Cinnamon looked out the window. Down below, on the street, she saw a massive yellow airbag deployed.

She looked back at Arturo. He was staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched.

He knew. He knew Chase wouldn't have died if he jumped. He knew the police were there.

He didn't need to risk a fight.

It was a show.

He had turned a suicide attempt into a PR stunt. He had turned her trauma into a statement of ownership.

She looked at his hand, the one holding hers. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket with his free hand and wiped the palm that had touched Chase. He scrubbed it, his face twisted in disgust, as if he had touched something rotting.

A chill went through Cinnamon that had nothing to do with the altitude.

He had saved her, yes. But he had also used her.

She was safe. But she was trapped.