Chapter 82

Chapter 82

Michael's gaze bore into her like a physical force, threatening to sear through her averted profile.

After what felt like an eternity, he spoke, his tone brooking no argument: "Give me your contact information. I'll cover the full cost of the repairs."

The excuse was perfectly reasonable, unassailable on its surface. But Jessica knew better. This was nothing more than his attempt to reclaim control over her. Once she gave in, the ties she'd fought so desperately to sever would spring back to life.

"That won't be necessary." She refused without hesitation, her voice trembling in a way she couldn't quite conceal. "It's just a minor scratch. I can handle it myself. No need to trouble yourself, Chief Sullivan."

The air inside the car seemed to evaporate instantly, the pressure suffocating.

"Jessica Brooks." Michael enunciated each syllable of her name slowly, deliberately. His voice was ice-cold, each word striking her heart like a hammer. "Your resignation letter is still sitting on my desk."

Jessica whipped her head around, staring at him in disbelief. Shock and fury flooded her usually clear eyes.

"What exactly are you implying?" Her voice shook. "Are you threatening me?"

"Yes. I can have you back at the City Police Department whenever I choose."

He admitted it without a moment's hesitation.

In those ice-blue eyes churned something she couldn't decipher—something bordering on obsessive madness.

He leaned even closer, his face nearly touching her cheek.

"Be good," he said slowly, "and I might let you go."

Let her go?

The words were like poisoned honey—fatally seductive, utterly humiliating.

Blood rushed to Jessica's head. She bit down hard on her lower lip to keep from screaming.

Just as the suffocating standoff reached its breaking point, rapid footsteps approached.

"Chief Sullivan!" Justin jogged over, umbrella in hand. When he took in the tense scene before him, his voice faltered. "What... what's going on here?"

Michael straightened, resuming his usual air of cold detachment.

Without sparing Justin a glance, he issued a command directed at Jessica: "Get out of the car."

Jessica didn't move. Her hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

"I said, get out of the car." Michael's voice dropped lower, that familiar, bone-chilling authority descending once more.

Justin watched nervously, scrambling to mediate: "Ms. Brooks, please don't misunderstand. I can handle things from here. It's still snowing—why don't you wait in Chief Sullivan's car where it's warm? You'll catch a cold out here."

Jessica knew there was no escaping this.

She drew a deep breath, as if accepting defeat, and released the steering wheel. She pushed open the door and stepped out.

She didn't dare look at Michael again. Instead, she walked straight past him, pulled open the passenger door of the black Bentley, and climbed inside.

Michael watched her—this woman who recoiled from him as if he were venomous yet had no choice but to submit. The coldness in his eyes deepened. He tossed a curt "Clean this up" at Justin before following her into the car and locking the doors.

The sharp click made Jessica's heart lurch.

She was now completely trapped in this confined space saturated with his presence.

The car merged smoothly into traffic. Justin's figure and her unfortunate secondhand sedan quickly disappeared from view.

No music played inside. Only the faint hum of the air vents and the oppressive silence between them filled the space.

Jessica pressed herself against the door, rigid as stone, wishing she could shrink into nothingness—anything to put more distance between herself and the dangerous man beside her.

She stared fixedly out the window at the snow-blurred scenery rushing past.

She couldn't understand why he refused to let her go.

Months had passed. She'd thought that if she stayed far enough away, she could erase that absurd chapter of her life completely.

But that resignation letter sitting on his desk at the City Police Department was a sword of Damocles hanging over her head, ready to sever the fragile new life she'd barely begun to build.

Time crawled by in suffocating silence.

Jessica's taut nerves gradually grew numb—until the car turned a familiar corner and awareness slammed back into her.

Outside the window: the convenience store she frequented. The newsstand she passed every day.

This wasn't the route to her apartment.

No—it was.

Jessica's head snapped toward him. She stared at the expressionless man beside her, her voice trembling: "How do you know where I live?"

Michael's gaze remained fixed straight ahead, as if he couldn't see the panic flooding her face. He spoke flatly: "Checking in on a former employee. Is that so hard to understand?"

Checking in? This wasn't concern—it was surveillance.

A chill swept through Jessica's entire body. She watched as Michael maneuvered the steering wheel with practiced ease, finally bringing the car to a smooth stop directly in front of her aging apartment building.

He didn't give her a chance to question him further. He simply unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out of the car.

Jessica's blood turned to ice. She watched helplessly as he walked around the hood with unhurried strides toward the building entrance, his bearing as casual as if he'd made this journey a thousand times before.

He didn't just know which building she lived in.

He knew her exact unit.