Chapter 27 The Penthouse
The ride to the penthouse was silent—not the cold kind, but the heavy, exhausted kind. The city lights washed through the tinted windows, brushing Elena’s bruised cheek with soft gold streaks as she stared out, trying to slow her heartbeat back to something normal.
Jaxon didn’t speak, but he kept glancing at her from the corner of his eye—checking if she was okay without wanting to overwhelm her. Damon drove with a protective stiffness, still on high alert after everything.
When they finally pulled into the underground parking, Jaxon rested a gentle hand on her back as they stepped out.
“Careful,” he murmured, his voice unusually soft.
The private elevator whooshed open, and when they stepped inside, Elena inhaled sharply.
She caught her reflection in the mirrored wall—hair tousled, mascara smudged, the collar of her blouse torn on one side.
“I can’t go home like this,” she whispered. “My mother will break down. My dad will panic. I just… I don’t want them to know. Not yet.”
“Only Brielle knows,” Jaxon said firmly. “No one else ever will. I promise.”
Those words—I promise—made her throat tighten.
The elevator opened into his penthouse, and for a moment she forgot how to breathe.
Warm champagne-gold lights glowed across everything. The living room was a wide stretch of modern elegance:
• A deep charcoal L-shaped sofa
• A glass wall revealing the city like a living painting
• A cream rug patterned with silver threads
• Soft instrumental music playing somewhere low, as if the place sensed they needed calm
Damon sighed and rubbed his face.
“Man… what a day.”
Jaxon cast him an appreciative glance.
“Go rest. You’ve done more than enough.”
Damon nodded and disappeared down the hallway to the guest wing.
Then it was just Jaxon and Elena.
Silence wrapped around them again—louder this time.
Jaxon cleared his throat. “Come on. I’ll show you your room.”
He led her down a hallway lined with framed black-and-white architectural photographs, the lights forming a soft golden path ahead of them. Elena followed, hugging her arms lightly around herself.
When he opened the bedroom door, she stopped in awe.
The room was… breathtaking.
Soft white walls, tall windows draped with pale grey curtains, and a king-sized bed with a snow-white duvet and ash-silver pillows. The bedside lamps glowed warm amber, casting gentle shadows that made the room feel almost like a sanctuary.
A plush lilac throw blanket lay neatly at the foot of the bed, adding a whisper of color.
And the closet—sliding glass doors with soft lighting—looked like a mini boutique.
Jaxon stepped inside; she stayed at the doorway, suddenly overwhelmed.
He turned and noticed.
“Oh—sorry.” He gave a shy, nervous laugh and stepped aside. “I didn’t mean to block your way.”
“It’s fine,” she said quickly—even though both of them were clearly acting… weird.
He opened a drawer near the bathroom and pulled out a folded towel.
As he handed it to her, their fingers brushed.
Both froze.
Both pulled back at the same time.
Both laughed awkwardly.
The tension was sweet, awkward, emotional—like two people who didn’t know how to behave after almost losing each other.
“You can, uh—use the shower,” Jaxon said, rubbing the back of his neck. “And… take anything you need from the closet. There are clothes that should fit.”
“You sure?” Her voice was small.
“I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t,” he said gently.
He moved toward the closet at the same moment she did, and they bumped shoulders lightly.
“Oh—sorry!”
“No, no, I moved first—”
“No, I wasn’t looking—”
They paused again, looked at each other, and—despite the exhaustion—shared a tiny, breathless laugh.
The room was quiet, safe, warm.
Elena exhaled for the first time in hours.
And for a moment… she allowed herself to feel safe.
Jaxon’s footsteps faded down the hall, and Elena stood alone in the quiet, luxurious room. For a long moment, she just let herself breathe. The soft, amber lighting made everything feel unreal—gentler, safer—like the world outside couldn’t reach her here.
She brushed her fingers over the lilac throw blanket on the bed, over the smooth bedside table, over a small crystal vase with a single preserved white rose. Everything smelled faintly of linen and cedarwood.
Then her eyes drifted to the closet.
The glass doors shimmered under the warm lights, revealing hints of color and fabric behind them. Curiosity tugged at her… and something else she didn’t want to name.
She slid the door open.
Her breath hitched.
Inside were rows of neatly arranged clothes—women’s clothes. Silk blouses, soft knit sweaters, elegant dresses in pastel shades. A section of shoes—heels, sandals, even designer flats—lined the lower shelf. A few handbags hung on the side hooks. Everything feminine. Everything beautiful.
Her stomach did an unexpected, irritating twist.
Maya?
Maya’s things?
The thought struck fast, sharp.
How else would a man—a bachelor who lives alone—have an entire wardrobe full of untouched women’s items in a room he apparently never uses?
She swallowed.
It shouldn’t matter.
It didn’t matter.
And yet… there it was—an unmistakable, stupid, uninvited sting of jealousy.
“Why am I even feeling like this?” she whispered to herself, annoyed.
She touched a soft cream sweater. It still had the tag on it. All of them did. No sign of wear. No lingering perfume. No random earrings left behind.
Maya never lived here, she realized.
But still… the unease lingered.
She shut the closet slowly and turned away, trying to shake off the thoughts.
Her gaze drifted to the bathroom door. She needed a shower—needed to wash off everything that had clung to her since the warehouse: fear, dirt, cold sweat, adrenaline… memories.
She stepped into the bathroom, and warmth wrapped around her instantly. The lights were soft and golden, reflecting off the marble tiles. A rain-style showerhead gleamed above a glass enclosure. Thick white towels sat folded like clouds beside a scented candle that smelled faintly like vanilla and sandalwood.
She let the hot water fall over her, closing her eyes as steam filled the room and loosened the tight knots in her chest. Her thoughts drifted—unbidden—to Jaxon.
His worried eyes.
His steady voice.
The way he stayed close without smothering her.
The way he looked at her… like he was scared to lose her.
She exhaled, pressing a hand against her chest.
When she stepped out, she wrapped herself in one of the soft towels—warm, oversized, enveloping. Droplets slid down her shoulders as she left the bathroom, steam trailing behind her.