POV: Jasmine
Day five.
Jackson was smiling when I opened the door—the kind of smile that made my blood run cold, that suggested he knew something I didn't and was enjoying the power differential. The kind of smile that belonged on a predator who'd finally cornered its prey.
He sat behind the desk in Liam's chair, lord of a kingdom built on someone else's foundation, and gestured toward the chair across from him with casual authority.
"Sit."
I sat. Hands folded in my lap to hide their trembling. Back straight. Face carefully blank. Every survival instinct I'd developed over years of navigating dangerous situations screaming at me to run.
"You've performed admirably this week," he said, studying me like I was an investment he was considering. "Better than I expected, honestly. Most women would have broken by now."
"I'm not most women."
"No." His smile widened. "You're not. That's what makes this so enjoyable."
He leaned back in the chair—Liam's chair—and steepled his fingers. The gesture was calculated, designed to project power and control. Everything about Jackson Blackwood was calculated.
"Tomorrow is a company holiday," he said, voice conversational. "Celebrating our success. The turnaround we've accomplished together."
Together. Like I was a willing participant instead of the sacrifice that made it possible.
"The contracts are signed. The lawsuits settled. Stock is stabilizing." He ticked off each item like checking boxes on a list. "My sons' legacy is secure. You should be proud."
"I'll be proud when you're gone."
He laughed—genuine amusement that made my skin crawl. "There's that fire. I was wondering when it would resurface."
"What do you want, Jackson?"
"Direct. I appreciate that." He stood, moved around the desk with that predatory grace that belied his age. "You'll come to my apartment tomorrow evening. Eight o'clock. We'll celebrate privately."
The implication hung in the air like smoke. Tomorrow, he would take what he'd been working toward all week. The touches that had been possessive but restrained would become something I couldn't dissociate from, couldn't compartmentalize, couldn't survive intact.
"Those are my conditions for finalizing my support," he continued, stopping close enough that I could smell his cologne. "One evening. Full cooperation. Then you'll have earned your place in my sons' lives permanently."
Earned. Like I was currency. Like my body was a transaction that would purchase legitimacy.
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I withdraw my support." His voice didn't change—still pleasant, still conversational, still utterly terrifying. "The contracts I've negotiated have clauses that revert without my signature. The lawsuits I've settled can be reopened. The company collapses within six months, and you'll have destroyed everything they've built."
"You'd do that to your own sons?"
"I'd do what's necessary to get what I want." He shrugged. "I always have. They understand that about me, even if they pretend otherwise."
I should refuse. Should stand up and walk out and let everything burn. But the brothers' future hung in the balance, and Jackson knew it—had calculated exactly how much I was willing to sacrifice for the men I loved.
"Your choice, Jasmine." He returned to his seat, utterly relaxed. "But you have until tomorrow evening to decide."
Silence stretched between us. I could feel his eyes on me, cataloging my reactions, measuring my resistance. Looking for cracks he could exploit.
"I need to think about it," I said finally.
"Of course. Take all the time you need." His smile turned sharp. "Just remember what's at stake."
I moved to stand, desperate to escape, but his hand shot out. Grabbed my thigh. Not gently—possessively. His fingers dug into my flesh through the thin fabric of my skirt.
"You need to wear something special," he said, eyes locked on mine while his hand burned through my clothes. "If you're going to play the part, at least look it."
"Let go of me."
"When I'm ready."
His grip tightened for a moment—a reminder that he could take what he wanted whenever he wanted—then released. But before I could step back, he was on his feet, moving faster than a man his age should be able to.
Then he kissed me.
Not the perfunctory kiss of someone testing waters. Deep, wet, claiming—his tongue forcing its way past my lips, exploring my mouth like he owned it. One hand fisted in my hair, holding me in place. The other pressed against the small of my back, trapping my body against his.
I went somewhere else. Floated near the ceiling. Watched this happen to someone who looked like me but couldn't possibly be me. Because I wouldn't have agreed to this. Wouldn't have traded myself this completely.
Except I had. And that was the part I couldn't escape no matter how far I dissociated.
When he finally released me, I was shaking. Full-body tremors I couldn't control, my nervous system staging a rebellion my conscious mind couldn't afford.
Jackson wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, expression satisfied. "You taste like desperation. I like that."
I couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Could only stand there as the violation settled into my bones.
"Go home," he said, returning to the desk like nothing had happened. "I'll send you what to wear tomorrow. Don't disappoint me."
I made it to the door somehow. Made it through without looking back.
The hallway stretched before me like a gauntlet. Each step felt like walking through water, my body disconnected from my brain, operating on pure survival instinct. I kept my head down. Didn't make eye contact with anyone I passed. Just moved toward the elevator with single-minded determination.
The doors opened. I stepped inside. Pressed the button for the lobby.
My hands were trembling so badly I could barely manage it. Three attempts before my finger connected with the right floor.
The doors slid closed, sealing me in with my reflection. I looked like a stranger—pale, hollow-eyed, wearing clothes that felt like a costume designed by my own worst nightmares.
Tomorrow. He expected me tomorrow evening.
I thought about the brothers. About Liam's earnest eyes and Asher's gruff protection and Finn's vulnerable confession. About the company they'd built and the legacy they'd inherited and the future they were fighting for.
I thought about what Jackson wanted. What he would take. What would be left of me after.
And standing in that elevator, watching the floors count down like a timer I couldn't stop, I realized with sickening clarity: I'd run out of time.
There was no escape plan. No clever manipulation. No way to outsmart a predator who held all the cards.
And there was no one coming to save me.