Page 42 of Captured By Fate

He's dressed casually - in one of his old sweatshirts and jeans. But there's still an undeniable chill about him – an unspoken frostiness that lingers in his silence and rigid movements.

His hands move deftly over the breakfast preparation without any warmth, each movement mechanical and detached.

“Where is everyone?” I ask. My voice sounds loud and obtrusive in the quiet kitchen.

“Errands,” he replies curtly. “It’s just us this morning.”

A silence falls between us, a tension that clings as heavily as the steam in the air. The only sounds are the sizzle of frying bacon and the occasional soft clink of utensils against dishware. I watch his broad shoulders rising and falling with steady breaths, their rhythm a soothing counterpoint to his icy demeanor.

Finally, he turns from the stove, holding two plates piled high with breakfast — eggs over easy, crispy strips of bacon, and thick slices of toasted sourdough bread lightly smeared with butter.

He sets them down on the table between us, his movements purposeful yet lacking any gusto. There's an austerity about him that clashes with the abundant fare before me; it's like watching a church warden serve an indulgent feast.

We eat in silence. The food is simple but delicious. It fills me with warmth, a stark contrast to Jackson's cold exterior. I watch him over the edge of my coffee cup, studying his face that has now taken on a serious concentration as he methodically cuts into his breakfast. His fork and knife scrape against the porcelain plate, each sound echoing loudly in the quiet room.

When Jackson finally breaks our silence, it's not with a casual comment or an attempt at small talk. Instead, he drops a bombshell that makes my spoon clatter against my half-eaten egg.

"I'm going to let you go soon," he says, not lifting his gaze from his plate.

His words hang heavily in the air and suddenly, I am acutely aware of every detail around me - from the way his shirt clings to his muscled torso, to how his hair falls haphazardly over his forehead - as if this perfect domestic scene is about to shatter into a thousand pieces at any moment.

My heart skips a beat at his words - let me go? The enormity of it catches in my throat, choking on it as if it were a bite of unchewed food. I scramble for the right response, but my mind is a blank canvas. My hands clench around the coffee cup, the warmth seeping into my skin. I place the cup down, the action slow and deliberate.

Jackson continues to eat, his fork and knife scraping against his plate with mechanical precision. The contrast of his composed demeanor against his earth-shattering words creates a sense of disconnection that is almost surreal.

A numb silence stretches between us, thick as winter fog. Looking through it, I begin to see small details about Jackson that I hadn't truly noticed before: the slight frown line permanently etched between his brows, the way he holds his fork like he's afraid to break it, how he keeps glancing up at me as if he's expecting me to disappear any second.

I force a swallow past the lump in my throat and watch as he finally sets his silverware down. His eyes wander from his plate to meet mine, still filled with that austere seriousness.

In this moment, everything else seems irrelevant - the scent of breakfast waning yet still clinging stubbornly in the air, the muffled sounds from outside seeping through the closed windows - all drowned out by the pounding of my heart in my ears.

My reply is delayed as strong tidal waves of emotions crash over me—bitterness, confusion, disbelief.

A simple nod is all I can manage while inside me, a complicated mix of emotions churns—a sense of loss I can't quite understand, but one I know will linger long after the echo of Jackson's words have faded into silence.

26

JACKSON

With my hands clasped behind my back, I spend the last few minutes of my working day in a calm reverie. The sun hangs low, clinging to the towering buildings around me, yet Kelley is all I can think about as my eyes drift toward Long Island Sound.

I can just imagine her. Her long, thin legs swishing the dark waters of my pool. One of my button-down shirts seconds from being ripped away from her body. I could just see the look on her face at the very moment before she held her breath to dive in deep.

“Is that all for today, Mr. Corel?” One of my assistants asks, her face peeking through my door, interrupting me in this most sanctimonious moment.

“Yes, that’s all,” I say, without the heart to add anything more. “I've got some things I want to look over before I head out.”

I don't even turn to look, but the click of the door tells me I have my space again, and the time I need to ponder what’s happened to me since Kelley came into my life. I was supposed to be her captor. So who am I now? Her prisoner? Her pet?

Maybe both.

I turn away from the glass, my gaze falling on a photo of the club's founders, including Vince and Benny. A sigh escapes me as the weight of my impending decision presses down—let Kelley go and protect the club, or keep her close and risk more than just my control.

Kelley has gotten under my skin more than I care to admit. The fire in her spirit calls to my own, even as her continued defiance grates. I crave the thrill of conquering her, body and mind. But the longer I indulge this dangerous obsession, the more complications arise.

What started as a game of cat and mouse has shifted beneath my feet. I find myself constantly maneuvering to keep the upper hand when I should be the one in undisputed command. She's a distraction I can ill afford.

As much as it pains me, perhaps the time has come to cut her loose. For both our sakes. I've kept her caged long enough to serve my purposes. Her memories of this place will fade in time. No lasting harm done.

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