Chapter 9

The line went dead silent, his men frozen by the weight of his fury.

Roman sat back, every muscle tight, his mind whirling.

He hated her. He hated the arrogance, the smug defiance.

He hated the way she got under his skin with every breath she took.

And yet... the hate burned alongside something else. Something more dangerous. Because deep down, he wanted to know how.

How Elena Sinclair, pampered heiress, gossip column darling, the girl the city called spoiled and useless, was running circles around him. Outsmarting his best men. Mocking his reach, his empire.

Roman Thorne wanted to believe. Believe that the brat image was a mask. That there was more to her than pearls and champagne flutes.

His lips curled, not in amusement but in dark fascination. Maybe Elena Sinclair wasn’t a fool. Maybe she wasn’t a brat.

Maybe she was something far more dangerous. And God help her, if that were true, Roman would strip her down to her very soul until he owned every last secret.

The minutes bled away like drops of gasoline on open flame. 3:50.

Roman sat in the Sinclair estate lounge, head bent low, microphone clutched in one hand. His men’s voices scrambled over the line, every one of them a chorus of failure.

“Negative on the south grid, nothing.”

“She’s not at the docks, sir. No heat signals, no movement.”

“Cameras in district twelve just went dark. We’re rerouting…”

Roman’s patience snapped. “Enough.” His voice cut through the static like a whip.

The silence that followed was laced with fear. “You had hours. And she is still invisible. Do you understand what this means?”

No one answered. They didn’t need to. He could hear their shame in the silence.

Roman closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. For the first time in his life, his empire,the empire he’d built on precision, dominance, and fear, was powerless. Outmaneuvered by a girl who, by all accounts, should have been easy prey.

Spoiled. Careless. Weak.

That’s what the world called Elena Sinclair. But the truth was shredding through every carefully curated rumor, every polished lie. She wasn’t spoiled. She wasn’t careless.

She was clever. And she was winning.

His phone vibrated in his palm. He opened it without hesitation. Another message. From her.

Stop looking, Roman. I’ll be home at exactly 4:01.

Roman froze. His chest rose once, sharp and violent, as if the air itself had turned to smoke.

4:01.

Not 4:00. Not 3:59.

She had the audacity to dictate the very terms of his hunt.

His jaw locked as he read the words again, her voice echoing in his head, mocking him.

She wasn’t running anymore. She wasn’t hiding. She was telling him where she’d be and when, as if he were a desperate man waiting on her.

“Impossible,” he muttered, standing abruptly. “If she’s within ten minutes of this house, my men would’ve caught her already.”

But the truth clawed at him, his men had found nothing. His surveillance was blind. His control, nonexistent.

The clock ticked louder. 3:52.

Roman’s reflection glared back at him from the darkened window. Fury radiated from every line of his body, but beneath it, coiled tight and venomous, was something worse.

Anticipation.

Because now he wanted to see her walk through that door at 4:01. He needed to know if she could really deliver the final blow.

If Elena Sinclair had made him bleed today, she’d better finish the job.

The clock hands moved, relentless. 3:55. 3:57. 3:59.

Roman stood at the center of the room, hands clenched, gaze locked on the door.

Waiting.

The Sinclair estate had fallen into a tense quiet, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath.

Roman stood in the lounge, his tall frame rigid, eyes pinned to the clock.

3:59.

His phone remained stubbornly silent. His men had gone mute. The world outside seemed suspended, waiting with him.

Then it came...

The distant growl of an engine, low and guttural, growing louder as it devoured the road.

Tires screeched. Headlights cut across the driveway. The roar was sharp, arrogant, unapologetic.

Roman’s brows arched as the sound drew closer.

A car. Not just any car, a beast of a sports car, the kind that turned heads, commanded streets. And the way it moved… reckless, untamed, like its driver feared nothing.

The front gates clanged open, guards shouting as the car shot past. Jace’s panicked voice carried even through the walls.

“Elena, slow the hell down...!”

Roman’s lips parted in a mixture of disbelief and dawning realization.

3:59:45.

The car came to a screeching halt in the circular drive, smoke curling off the tires.

The door flew open, and Elena Sinclair stepped out, her hair windswept, cheeks flushed, every inch of her radiating a storm.

She slammed the door shut without a glance back, heels clicking against stone as she strode toward the house.

Behind her, Jace stumbled out, still cursing. “You’re insane, you know that? One day that speed demon act is going to kill us both...” But Elena only tossed him a careless wave.

Jace threw his hands up, muttered a string of colorful curses, and slid back into the car.

The engine roared once more before he sped away, leaving the heiress standing alone at the grand doors of the estate.

3:59:58.

Roman’s heart thudded once, heavy and sharp.

The doors opened.

And there she was.

Elena walked into the lounge with the composure of a queen arriving to her throne, chin high, eyes blazing with something wild.

Her presence filled the room instantly, sucking the air out of Roman’s lungs. She didn’t falter. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t explain.

She stopped in front of him.

The clock struck 4:01.

Roman’s gaze flicked from her flushed lips to the clock, back to her eyes.

Exactly as she promised.

She had arrived. On her terms.

Elena’s lips curved, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner as if she could hear the war raging inside him.

She didn’t speak. she didn’t need to. Her aura screamed louder than words ever could.

Roman, was left utterly stunned.