Chapter 6

Eleanor stomped into the kitchen, her heels clicking furiously against the tiles. She saw the empty space where Bridget usually stood, her face twisting with rage, but she didn't dare question Donte.

Instead, she marched straight toward Gene.

"Since you have so much free time," Eleanor hissed, shoving a sleek, insulated lunchbox into Gene's hands, "you will take this back to Manhattan. Alvie is at the corporate office working through lunch. You will deliver this to him."

Eleanor lifted her chin, playing the role of the commanding matriarch. "It's your duty as a wife to repair the damage you caused last night."

Gene stared down at the expensive lunchbox. The thought of seeing Alvie made her skin crawl. She opened her mouth to tell Eleanor to throw the box in the trash.

"I'm heading to the Wall Street headquarters," Donte's voice cut through the tension.

He set his empty espresso cup on the marble counter. He picked up a linen napkin and slowly wiped his hands, his eyes fixed on Eleanor.

"She can ride with me," Donte stated. It wasn't an offer.

Eleanor's jaw dropped. She had planned for Gene to take the public train back to the city as a punishment. The idea of Gene riding in Donte's personal vehicle was unthinkable.

"Donte, you don't have to-" Eleanor started to protest.

Donte simply stared at her until she closed her mouth. Eleanor forced a tight, bitter smile and nodded, shooting Gene a look of pure venom.

Ten minutes later, Gene walked out the front doors. A massive, armored black Maybach S680 idled by the fountain.

The driver opened the rear door. Gene took a deep breath and slid into the cavernous, leather-scented backseat.

Donte was already sitting on the opposite side. He held an iPad in one hand, scrolling through financial reports. His profile was carved from stone, completely unreadable.

The heavy door slammed shut. The thick acoustic glass sealed them inside, cutting off the sound of the wind and the gravel. The privacy partition between them and the driver was already raised.

The Maybach glided smoothly onto the highway. The silence inside the cabin was thick and heavy.

Gene shifted uncomfortably. She pressed herself against the door panel, trying to maintain a physical boundary. She didn't trust Donte. His protection felt too heavy, too calculated.

Donte's eyes flicked from his screen to the space between them. He noticed her pressing against the door. His jaw tightened slightly.

Suddenly, a massive delivery truck swerved violently into their lane.

The driver slammed on the brakes. The Maybach's tires screeched.

The massive deceleration threw Gene forward and sideways. She let out a sharp gasp as she lost her balance completely, tumbling across the wide leather seat.

Donte dropped his iPad. His arm shot out with terrifying speed.

He caught her mid-fall. His large hand wrapped firmly around her waist, pulling her hard against his chest to stop her from hitting the partition.

Gene's cheek slammed into the solid wall of his chest. The impact knocked the breath out of her. Instantly, her senses were overwhelmed by the heat of his body and the intoxicating, sharp scent of cedarwood and male musk.

Through the thin fabric of her sweater, she could feel the heavy, steady thud of his heart. His palm burned hot against the curve of her waist.

The Maybach stabilized, resuming its smooth speed.

But Donte didn't let go.

His arm remained locked around her waist. In fact, his fingers flexed, pulling her a fraction of an inch closer.

Gene's heart skipped a beat. A sudden, terrifying heat flushed her cheeks. She pushed her hands flat against his chest, trying to pry herself away.

Donte slowly released his grip, letting her slide back to her side of the seat. His eyes were dark, tracking the faint blush spreading across her neck.

"Are you hurt?" his voice was a low, gravelly rasp.

"No," Gene said quickly. She smoothed down her sweater, her hands trembling slightly. She forced herself to look out the window. "Thank you."

Donte didn't look away from her. His gaze drifted down to the insulated lunchbox sitting on the floorboard. A cruel, mocking smirk touched his lips.

"Do you really think a home-cooked meal is going to fix a broken man?" Donte asked, his tone lazy but piercing.

Gene snapped her head to look at him. The embarrassment vanished, replaced by a cold, hard clarity.

"I don't think it will fix anything," Gene said flatly. "I'm just taking out the trash."

Donte's eyes flared with sudden, intense interest. He leaned toward her, invading her space, the sheer size of him making the massive backseat feel claustrophobic.

"If it's trash," Donte whispered, his voice dark and dangerous, "you should make sure it's destroyed completely. Do you need my help?"

Gene stared into his endless, predatory eyes. Before she could answer, the Maybach slowed to a halt. The door was pulled open by the driver. They were in the underground garage of the Gallagher corporate tower.