Page 41 of Captured By Fate

The cool night air hits us like a ton of bricks as we step out onto the neon-lit sidewalk glowing with an array of greens and blues from passing cars and clubs neighboring us. We don't speak as we walk to the car.

She seems to finally have sensed my mood. My demeanor has turned from the upbeat dancer to this brooding, icy shell.

I can feel Kelly shiver lightly against my side despite the warmth emanating off her body earlier in the club - an aftershock perhaps? And suddenly, something inside snaps within me: these feelings are a problem and I don’t know how to deal with them.

25

KELLEY

Jackson’s face is shrouded in darkness. The only light that illuminates his features is from the dash of his sleek, black car.

I’m not sure what happened, or what changed. His mood was light, airy, and fun. We danced. It was sensual.

Now, he looks ready to commit homicide. It happened in the span of a moment. I saw the change come over him while we were dancing.

Up until that second, everything was…going somewhere. It was moving along nicely. There was a moment where I thought it might become something.

Then, I remembered that he is my captor. And then this happened. This dark mood that hangs over both of us like a raincloud.

I want to know what happened. I want to know what upset him. I hesitate, debating on whether or not to ask.

“Jackson?” I question almost fearfully.

His gaze, intense and stormy, swerves towards me. His eyes, a tempest in the darkness, flit over my face before returning back to the road. The silent thrumming of the engine fills the gap our words have left behind. I've spoken my piece; it’s his turn to respond. But he doesn't.

There's something about this silence that's not quite silence. It's an umbrella of quietude under which echoes a symphony of unsaid words, unasked questions that pound like hailstones against the canvas of our tension.

"Jackson," I try again, my voice swallowed by the confines of the sleek black beast we're enclosed in. "What's wrong?"

And then I see it – a flicker on his face as brief as summer lightning, a glimmer of vulnerability that splits his stormy facade. And just like that, it hardens again, cemented by some stubborn defiance that has nothing to do with our situation.

A small sigh escapes me then, much too quiet for him to hear but loud enough to carry the weight of my confusion. A confusion fueled by both fear and an inexplicable sense of longing. The city lights whizz past us outside, their streaks painting fleeting technicolor masterpieces on his brooding silhouette.

By the time we arrive home, the uncomfortable silence has reached a fevered pitch. A pervasive chill has stolen into the air, a grim specter of our frosty exchange.

The car, once an intimate sanctuary, now feels more like a glacier's heart - cold and stony. We pull up to the mansion, tucked away in a quiet corner of the city that rarely hears the regular hubbub of traffic.

Jackson cuts off the engine and the echo of its dying hum reverberates in the tense air. He steps out of the car without a single word, slamming the door with a force that sends prickling tremors down my spine. My hand reaches out almost instinctively towards him, but the cool glass window is all it finds.

He strides across our cobblestone driveway, his footsteps crisp against the night's blanket of silence. His silhouette under the lone street lamp is as rigid as his resolve, forming a stark contrast against the soft illumination. The front door creaks open then shuts behind him with a resounding finality that leaves me sitting alone in our icy vehicle.

I can’t think of anything else to do besides go in and go to bed. I shower quickly and climb under the blankets, confused and sad about the turn of events. It started out so fine of a night.

When I wake the next morning, I don’t feel any better. I’m confused and frustrated. Perhaps, Jackson’s mood will have improved during the night.

I dress quickly and exit my room in a rush. The staircase leading down is bathed in the warm morning sunlight filtering through the whimsically decorated stained glass windows, painting patterns of color in an otherwise bleak and haunted environment.

I skip hastily down the steps, wooden panels creaking under my weight, each groan echoing my apprehension of the confrontation that awaits me.

The once bustling hallway, adorned with million dollar paintings and an antique grandfather clock that still keeps pristine time, is eerily quiet. The only sound is of my footsteps on the hardwood floor, a rhythmic punctuation to the symphony of silence.

I reach the entrance to the kitchen, pausing to take a deep breath; the air is crisp with winter's surrender to spring. Squaring my shoulders, I push open the swinging door and step inside.

The kitchen is alive with morning light pouring in through the skylights. Golden rays dance on polished countertops, gleaming against stainless steel appliances. A breakfast scene from a lifestyle magazine unfurls before me; it has an uncanny perfection that almost belies its domestic authenticity.

At the heart of this tranquil tableau stands Jackson by the stove, his back to me, hunched over a sizzling pan. Steam rises and swirls around him like ghostly tendrils; the smell of fresh coffee and bacon fills the room.

I watch him in silent awe; his movements are measured and precise, he handles every utensil with effortless grace. His icy exterior from last night seems to have thawed slightly in this familiar setting.

---