All Chapters of Rejected: Dangerous solace in the masked stranger : Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Lisa’s POV The vibrations of the motorcycle crawl up my spine, a jarring contrast to the sterile silence of the office I just left. I’m clinging to Draven’s leather jacket, my cheek pressed against his back as he weaves through the gridlock with a terrifying, fluid grace. He doesn’t smell like the expensive peppermint and woodsmoke of the office; he smells like wind, gasoline, and something dark that makes my blood sing. He doesn't stop at a bistro or a place with white tablecloths. He pulls the bike onto a sidewalk in front of a nameless diner with a flickering neon sign. As we walk in, the chatter of the rough-looking crowd dies down. The cook nods once a gesture of silent respect. Draven slides into a vinyl booth in the back, pulling me down beside him. "You look like you've been fighting a war," he growls, his dark eyes scanning my face. "Just work, Draven. It’s a lot for a first day." I reach for the water glass, but my hand hitches. My fingers are locked in a cramped, ach

Lisa’s POV Antwerp doesn't feel like a fairy tale. It feels like a fortress. The Hoveniersstraat is a narrow, heavily guarded street where billions of dollars in stones move behind nondescript concrete walls. Walking beside Evander, I don't feel like a "trophy." I feel like a junior architect being shown the blueprints of a kingdom. "The security here is biometric," Evander says, his tone purely academic as we approach a heavy steel door. "No one gets into the vaults without a cleared profile and a scheduled appointment. Even I have to wait." He isn't hovering. In fact, throughout the morning, he’s been almost distant, focused on the logistics of the Onyx Series. It makes me feel foolish for my nerves on the plane. He’s a CEO with a multi-million dollar launch; of course he’s intense. Inside the vault, the air is cold and smells of ozone. A dealer in a sharp black suit lays out a velvet tray of raw emeralds. "Ms. Thomas," Evander says, stepping back to give me space at the

The hotel’s lounge is dimly lit, all dark velvet booths and low, golden lighting that reflects off the crystal glassware. Evander is waiting for me at a corner table, a glass of amber scotch already in his hand. He stands when I approach, pulling out my chair with a practiced, effortless chivalry. "You look beautiful, Lisa," he says, his eyes lingering on the simple black dress I chose. "The rest did you good." "Thank you," I say, taking my seat. My hands are folded tightly in my lap, hiding the slight tremor in my fingers. The waiter appears, poured us both water, and slips away. I take a slow sip, using the glass to shield my face. I need to be smart about this. I can’t just accuse my billionaire boss of corporate espionage and stalking based on a file and a tip from a guy in a motorcycle jacket. "The Bourse meeting," I begin, keeping my voice casual, professional. "Did it go well?" "As well as these things can," Evander replies, leaning back. "A lot of old men arguing over frac

...Halfway through the main course, a waiter steps up to our table to refill my water crystal. As he leans over, his linen towel brushes against my lap, and a small, folded piece of thick cardstock slides smoothly onto my dress. I instantly cover it with my hand, my breath catching. I wait until Evander is deep in conversation with a Belgian minister to his left before I secretly unfold it beneath the table. It’s a sketch. It’s a rough, beautifully detailed charcoal drawing of a dusty, old workshop. There is a heavy wooden workbench, a roaring soldering torch, and a window looking out over a dark, gritty city skyline. It’s an intimate, lived-in space, drawn by someone who clearly knew it well. But as I stare at it, nothing happens. No memories spark. No sudden realizations hit me. I grew up in a quiet upstate suburb and went to school in Manhattan. I’ve never seen this room in my life. Underneath the drawing, written in a dark, aggressive script, are the words: You designed the c

The cold Belgian rain doesn't just fall; it slashes through the darkness like broken glass. My high-heeled evening shoes are completely useless on the slick, uneven cobblestones of the alley behind the Royal Museum of Fine Arts. I stumble, a breathy gasp of terror ripping from my throat as my ankle twists. I’m waiting for the impact of the stone waiting to crash down into the wet gravel. But I never hit the ground. An arm thick as a steel beam wraps securely around my ribs, effortlessly catching my entire weight before hauling me back onto my feet. Damian doesn't even break his stride. He drags me forward, his massive frame cutting an impenetrable path through the downpour, his heavy boots slamming into the puddles with a terrifying, rhythmic purpose. "Draven stop! Please!" I scream against the wind, my silk Gala dress plastered to my skin like a freezing second layer, my teeth chattering so violently it hurts my jaw. "The police... Evander’s men... they’re going to hunt us down!