POV: Jasmine
The text arrived while I was still processing my confrontation with Adelyn, her threats echoing through my skull like shrapnel.
We have unfinished business. 8 PM. Don't keep me waiting.
Jackson. Of course. Because one predator circling me apparently wasn't enough for the universe's sick sense of humor.
I stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the delete button. Every instinct screamed to refuse. To block his number, to hide behind the brothers, to pretend I hadn't seen the summons that brooked no refusal.
But Jackson held too many cards.
The company. The lawsuit. The brothers' futures. One word from him to the board, one strategic leak to Adelyn's lawyers, and everything we'd fought for would crumble. He'd made that abundantly clear during his last visit—his sons existed at his pleasure, their empire built on foundations he could pull out from under them whenever he chose.
And he'd chosen to remind me of that power. Tonight.
I texted Liam that I had a work emergency, hating the lie even as I typed it. Hating myself more for going. But what choice did I have? Jackson wasn't the kind of man you ignored without consequences.
His apartment was exactly as opulent and threatening as I remembered.
Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the city like a conquest, every glittering light a reminder of wealth and power concentrated in hands that took whatever they wanted. The art on the walls cost more than most people earned in a lifetime. The furniture was designed for intimidation, not comfort.
Jackson greeted me in a silk robe, cigar in hand, expression promising retribution for my previous defiance. He didn't offer me a seat. Didn't offer pleasantries or drinks or any of the social lubricants that pretended encounters like this were civilized.
"You came," he observed, smoke curling from his lips like a dragon contemplating its next meal.
"You didn't give me much choice."
"No." His smile was razor-edged satisfaction. "I didn't."
He began to circle me, slow and deliberate, the way predators tested prey before striking. I held perfectly still, refusing to track his movement, refusing to show the fear crawling up my spine like ice water.
"You humiliated me," Jackson said conversationally, completing one orbit and starting another. "Made me perform for you like a common client. Touching myself while you danced just out of reach, playing dominatrix games you had no right to play."
"I gave you exactly what you wanted."
"You gave me what you were willing to give." He stopped directly behind me, close enough that I felt the heat of his body through my clothes. "There's a difference."
"The deal was—"
"The deal was whatever I decided it was." His hand shot out, fingers closing around my wrist with bruising force. He yanked me around to face him, and the cold calculation in his eyes made my stomach clench. "Tonight, I take what I want."
I tried to pull away, but his grip was iron. Seventy-three years old and still stronger than any man his age had a right to be—money bought excellent personal trainers along with everything else.
"The brothers aren't here." His free hand threaded through my hair, not gentle, not violent, somewhere in the territory between that made resistance feel pointless. He inhaled deeply, nose pressed to the crown of my head like he was sampling wine. "They can't protect you from me."
The truth of that statement settled into my bones like lead.
"You smell like my sons," he murmured against my hair, and the intimacy of the observation made my skin crawl. "Their cologne, their soap, their sweat. You've been letting them mark you like territory." His lips brushed my ear. "Tomorrow, you'll smell like me."
His other hand moved to my breast, squeezing hard enough to bruise through the fabric of my blouse. I gasped—not from pleasure, never from pleasure with him—and tried to twist away, but he held me fast.
"Struggle all you want," Jackson breathed, teeth grazing the sensitive skin of my neck. "It makes it better."
The nausea hit without warning.
One moment I was trapped in his grip, every nerve screaming with revulsion and fear. The next, my stomach revolted—a visceral rejection of his touch, his smell, the cigar smoke coating my throat, the absolute horror of what was about to happen.
I wrenched away from him with strength born of desperation, stumbling toward the bathroom I remembered from my last visit. My hand found the doorframe just as my knees hit marble, and then I was vomiting into his pristine toilet—violent, unstoppable heaving that emptied everything I'd eaten that day and then kept going.
My body was staging a full rebellion. Weeks of stress, fear, and accumulated trauma finally finding an exit. The lawsuit. Adelyn's threats. Jackson's hands on me. Everything I'd been swallowing down, holding together, forcing myself to endure—it all came up in wave after wave of violent sickness.
When the heaving finally subsided, I slumped against the cool tile, trembling and sweat-soaked and utterly depleted. Mascara streaked my cheeks. My carefully constructed armor had been reduced to a woman curled on a bathroom floor, barely able to lift her head.
Jackson watched from the doorway, expression calculating rather than concerned. His robe was still perfectly arranged, cigar still smoldering between his fingers, posture radiating nothing but cold assessment.
"That," he said, "is disgusting."
I couldn't argue. Could barely form words around the residual nausea still churning in my gut.
He studied me for a long moment—the vomit, the tears, the absolute wreckage of whatever seduction or domination he'd planned for the evening. Something flickered across his features. Not sympathy. Jackson didn't do sympathy. More like recalculation, adjusting his expectations to accommodate this inconvenient development.
He disappeared briefly, returning with a tissue that he extended toward me with mock courtesy. The gesture was somehow more degrading than anything he'd done before—treating me like a child who'd made a mess rather than a woman he'd been assaulting moments ago.
"Go home," Jackson said, and his voice carried the dismissive finality of a man whose plans had been delayed but not abandoned. "Take a rest. Drink some water. Whatever it is women do when they're..." He gestured vaguely at my condition. "Indisposed."
I took the tissue with shaking hands, not trusting my voice.
"We'll reschedule." His smile returned, patient and predatory. "I need you fresh and pink."