Chapter 4 - The Ride Out of the Storm
The interior of Rowan’s black Bentley Continental GT felt like a different planet.
The leather seats were heated and smelled of sandalwood and expensive cedar. Outside, the Chicago sleet was turning the pavement into a slick, freezing mirror, but inside, the cabin was an absolute sanctuary of silence.
I sat in the passenger seat, clutching my duffel bag in my lap like a shield. My cheek throbbed, a dull, pulsing ache that reminded me I was actually awake—that this wasn't just another fever dream brought on by exhaustion and fear.
Rowan drove with one hand resting casually on the wheel, navigating the Loop traffic with quiet precision. He hadn't asked me a single question since we left the apartment. He hadn't offered pity, and he hadn't demanded gratitude.
He simply drove.
After ten minutes of quiet, as we crossed the bridge over the Chicago River with the illuminated skyscrapers reflecting off the dark water, Rowan reached into the center console, pulled out a small, foil-wrapped ice pack, and handed it to me without taking his eyes off the road.
"Hold that against your face," he instructed.
I took it. The cold bit into my skin, instantly dulling the sting of the bruise.
"Thank you, Mr. Ashby," I murmured, staring down at my knuckles.
"Rowan."
He corrected me without looking over.
"Rowan," I repeated, the name feeling foreign and heavy on my tongue. "I... I don't know what happens next. He knows where I work. He knows my schedule."
"He won't be visiting the office," Rowan said smoothly.
"How can you be sure?"
Rowan finally glanced at me, his dark eyes reflecting the amber glow of the dashboard lights. "Because by tomorrow morning, Troy Reinholdt’s production company will be audited by the state revenue department, his landlord will discover three months of missed commercial lease payments that my legal team has been quietly holding, and he will receive a very clear, very persuasive recommendation to relocate outside of the Midwest."
I stared at him, stunned. "You... you already knew about him?"
"I make it my business to know everything that affects the operational efficiency of Ashby Capital," Rowan said, turning the steering wheel as we exited toward the Gold Coast. "And for the last three years, my best logistics analyst has been operating at thirty percent capacity because she was too exhausted by a parasite to sleep."
A sharp, unexpected laugh escaped my throat—half hysterical, half relieved.
"Was I that obvious?"
"To everyone except yourself," Rowan replied quietly. He pulled the car to a smooth stop in front of a high-rise limestone apartment building overlooking Lake Michigan, where a uniformed doorman immediately stepped forward to open the door. "We’re here."
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"Whose apartment is this?" I asked, hesitating as I looked up at the towering facade.
"Mine," Rowan said, cutting the engine. "And until we secure a permanent place for you where your ex-boyfriend can't spell your name, you aren't leaving it."
