Chapter 4 The Interruption 2/2
Rhys held me for a long minute, letting the adrenaline and the humiliation wash out in the darkness of his jacket. When I finally stilled, he didn't immediately release me.
He eased back just enough to look at my face. He gently lifted his right hand, keeping his left arm locked around my waist, holding me against him. He used his thumb, rough from racing gloves, to slowly and deliberately wipe a tear streak from my cheekbone. The contact sent a sharp, unexpected jolt through my chest. His eyes, dark and intense, never left mine, and the sheer focus made the casual intimacy feel like a violation of the protocol of our distance. He’s just establishing control, I told myself, denying the sharp spike of feeling that contact generated.
"We don't have time for this, Ellie," he said, the roughness back in his voice, but the low volume made it feel like a secret.
I felt frozen, lost in the immediate darkness of his eyes. We don't have time for what? The question echoed unanswered in my mind. A strange, prickly feeling spread across my skin, a dizzying mix of fear and acute awareness in my chest that defied categorization. I couldn't move, couldn't speak, could only feel the steady pressure of his thumb, the subtle rhythm of his heart beneath my ear.
His leather jacket, still clinging to the scent of the racetrack, felt impossibly close. I noticed the faint, fine line of a scar above his eyebrow—something I had never seen on the glossy billboards—and realized the utter vulnerability of his proximity. He was a symbol of impenetrable strength, yet here he was, rigid with controlled tension, his thumb conducting a confusing survey of my defeat. This was a deviation, an emotional outlier that my mind instantly tried to reject. This is not protocol. This is not the arrogant Rhys Vance. My analytical side screamed for him to back away so I could label the event, but the raw, wounded part of me simply leaned in toward the heat.
He didn't move his hand, merely resting his thumb against my still-damp skin before pulling his hand back entirely. He finally released me, putting a necessary foot of distance between us.
"Clean yourself up," he said, the raw emotion gone, replaced by the cold, hard logic of the proposal. "You just ended a relationship with a high-end assault charge, and you have exactly thirty minutes to catch a flight."
"A flight where?" I challenged, grabbing a napkin from the coffee table. "And why? I have a dissertation due. My life is here. You think I can abandon five years of research for a public relations stunt?"
"Your life is chaos, and your ex is bleeding," Rhys cut in, dismissing my academic concerns entirely. "You need to escape the jurisdiction. I need to escape this PR mess. We solve both problems simultaneously." He pulled the folded, intimidating contract—a thicker sheaf of documents than I'd initially realized—from his back pocket.
"PR mess, or something worse?" I challenged, my voice regaining its intellectual edge, trying to claw back control. "Be precise, Rhys. If it's merely a digital hack, why fly an F1 jet halfway across the world for a semiotics expert? Hire a programmer. I decode meaning; I don't write code. Is the problem truly symbolic, or are you just using jargon to manipulate me?"
"The crisis is a calculated, digital attack designed to destroy my career. They’re manufacturing data, creating deepfakes, and poisoning my public meaning," he explained, emphasizing the key word. "It’s a symbolic war, and I need the world's best expert in reading distorted signs."
He slid the contract across the island. "I'm offering you the adventure Alex said you weren't capable of. I'm offering you the opportunity to weaponize that incredible mind of yours."
I stared at the contract, feeling the sudden rush of power—intellectual power—that always chased away the emotional noise. "I’m a Ph.D. candidate, not a spy, Rhys. If this is digital sabotage, what, specifically, are the terms of service? I read all your signs. What am I signing away?"
Rhys planted his hands on the island, leaning over the contract. "Complete discretion. Total availability. You will be my shadow until this is solved. You sign a strict, permanent Non-Disclosure Agreement regarding my personal life—past, present, and future. Everything you see, everything you deduce about me, stays with you. Forever."
My gaze hardened. "You're hiring my brain to save your name, but you're also buying my silence about your playboy history? That's not a contract, Rhys. That's leverage."
"It's a necessary precaution against the nature of the crisis," he countered smoothly.
"The attack targets my reputation by exploiting my weaknesses, past and imagined. The NDA isn't about protecting my past conquests, Ellie. It's about containing every piece of personal data they could weaponize against the team. This is a global campaign, and you will be privy to things my own security team doesn't know."
"In exchange," I retorted, matching his intensity, "I require guaranteed funding for the completion of my Ph.D. once this is done. I'm not giving up my degree for your damage control."
Rhys didn't even blink at the demand, merely nodding once—a sign of respect I hadn't expected. "Done. Full funding, whenever you request it."
"In exchange, I give you leverage of your own: A massive signing bonus and a salary that makes your UChicago stipend look insulting. I handle your police report, your apartment lease, and your tuition deferment. You walk away clean. No jail time, no debt, and a clean slate."
"How much?" I demanded, crossing my arms, trying to inject structure back into the conversation. "Don't insult me with an arbitrary figure, Rhys. If you value my mind, prove it. And if you think I’m selling my non-disclosure on our shared history cheap, you’ve forgotten who you’re talking to."
Rhys met my gaze, the seriousness in his eyes deepening. He didn't even pause. "I'll give you one million dollars, tax-free, upfront, to be my lead investigator. Plus all expenses, of course. Enough to erase your entire life here and start over, anywhere in the world."
The number was obscene. It was the absolute, total escape route he promised.
"It's a complete escape, Ellie. Take it," Rhys urged, his voice dropping to a gravelly, non-negotiable tone. "Or stay here and wait for the police to arrive and ruin that genius reputation you value so much."
I looked at the chaos, the destruction, the offer of intellectual war, and the memory of his thumb on my cheek.
"Where's the pen?" I said, my voice steady, the intellectual armor finally back in place. "And where's the jet?"