Chapter Fourteen
The night air was cooler than usual when the car arrived, sweeping around the corner with the silent authority of wealth. Its headlights cut through the street like a blade, and Jason's chest tightened as the gleaming Rolls-Royce Phantom VIII rolled to a smooth stop in front of him and Sam.
Even Sam, usually smug and unshakable, let out a low whistle.
"Damn… a Phantom VIII," he muttered, half to himself, half to Jason. "That ride alone costs more than both of our lives combined."
Jason chuckled, though his nerves ran deeper than he let show. "I can tell," he said, running his fingers through his hair. The polished car seemed like something from another world—a world he didn't belong to. Yet tonight, he had to convince himself otherwise.
The driver stepped out in an immaculate suit, the kind of man whose presence screamed discretion and quiet professionalism. Without a word, he opened the back door.
Sam turned to Jason quickly, grabbing his shoulder with a grip full of urgency. His voice dropped lower, dead serious this time.
"Listen, Jay. Whatever happens in there—be you. Don't let her money, her status, or those guards make you feel small. She chose to call you. That means something. If anything goes south, call me. You hear?"
Jason swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. Sam brushed his shoulders with exaggerated care, fixing his collar like an older brother would. Then, with a little grin to mask his own nerves, Sam added, "Go get her, champ."
Jason smirked faintly, though inside he was a storm. He straightened his back and stepped toward the open car door.
The leather interior swallowed him as he sank into the seat. The faint hum of the engine was nearly inaudible—luxury cars didn't roar, they whispered. The interior glowed with soft lights, polished wood trim, and the scent of something foreign, clean, and impossibly rich.
A crystal glass sat waiting for him, half-filled with red wine that shimmered like liquid velvet.
Jason hesitated. He didn't drink often, not anymore, and the bitter burn of alcohol had never been something he enjoyed. Grayson—the part of him that always measured, always calculated—hated it entirely. But Jason knew appearances mattered tonight. With a practiced ease, he picked up the glass and tilted it toward his lips.
The wine burned his tongue and coated his throat. He forced his expression into one of mild appreciation, nodding as if it were a familiar taste.
"Smooth," he muttered under his breath, though Grayson whispered in the back of his mind: You hate it. Don't pretend otherwise.
But Jason ignored the inner echo. Tonight wasn't about honesty. Tonight was about survival.
The ride stretched out like a dream. The Phantom floated across the city as if the streets themselves bent out of its way. Jason leaned back, running his thumb along the rim of the glass, trying to calm his racing thoughts. He wasn't just heading to see a woman—he was stepping into her world, a place where power dripped from the walls, where money carved reality itself.
When the car finally slowed, Jason leaned forward. His eyes widened as the gates opened.
The mansion was a fortress draped in beauty. The outer walls gleamed faintly under the lights, accented with veins of gold that ran through the architecture like rivers. The compound stretched wide, every corner manicured, fountains leaping skyward, exotic plants twisting upward as if competing with one another for his attention. The sheer scale of it made his chest tighten.
The Phantom purred to a stop at the foot of the grand stairs. Jason stepped out, the air here feeling different—cleaner, expensive somehow. He looked up at the mansion, its golden touches reflecting in his dark eyes.
Before he could take another step, two men in suits approached. Broad shoulders, sharp eyes, built like walls. Bodyguards.
Jason's brows lifted slightly. She has men? She had always come alone to the workshop, never with a shadow following her. He had underestimated her.
The men didn't speak. They didn't need to. Their silence was heavier than words as they motioned for him to follow.
Jason's jaw tightened, but he walked forward with controlled confidence, careful not to let his awe show too plainly. Inside, however, every step felt heavier. This is her world. Remember why you're here. Don't fold.
The doors opened, and the mansion's interior revealed itself. Marble floors that gleamed like mirrors. Chandeliers so intricate they seemed carved from ice. Paintings that probably cost more than everything Jason had ever owned stacked together.
The guards escorted him toward a grand dining hall, the kind you'd expect in old movies about royalty. The long table was laid out perfectly, yet only two seats were prepared—one at either end. The table itself was an elegant bridge between two lives: hers, drenched in wealth and untouchable power, and his, clawing up from nothing.
And then she appeared.
She walked into the dining room with the effortless grace of someone born into command. She wasn't overdressed—simple but elegant in a silk dress that clung lightly to her frame, her hair falling in loose waves. But her presence was sharper than any gown could convey.
"Jason," she said, her voice calm but carrying warmth, like his name was something she had been holding onto.
Jason inclined his head slightly, allowing himself a small smile. "Thanks for inviting me."
Her lips curved faintly, amusement sparking in her eyes. She gestured for him to sit, and as he slid into the chair opposite hers, he forced himself to keep his composure steady. He had promised himself he wouldn't shrink tonight.
"This is… impressive," Jason admitted, his eyes flicking briefly to the chandeliers above, then back to her. "But I won't lie, it feels a little surreal being here."
"Most people who walk in here usually lose their composure," she replied, leaning on her elbow lightly. "But you don't seem the type to get lost in the glitter. I like that."
Jason let out a small chuckle. "Glitter's nice, but I've always been more interested in what's real."
Her eyes lingered on him, studying his words, his posture, even the tone of his voice. Jason felt the weight of her gaze but didn't flinch. He gave her little compliments here and there—the craftsmanship of the house, the taste in décor—but he never went overboard. Every compliment was measured, balanced with just enough confidence that it came across genuine, not desperate.
And she noticed.
"You don't look intimidated," she finally said, tilting her head. "That's rare."
Jason smirked faintly, his eyes locking on hers. "Why should I be? You're the one who came to my workshop first. If anything, I should feel honored you trusted me enough to work on your car."
She laughed softly, the sound light but genuine. "You have an interesting way of turning things around."
Dinner was served—plates arriving quietly, delicacies Jason could barely name. He tasted them carefully, nodding politely at the flavors. He wasn't about to embarrass himself by overreacting.
As the night stretched, the conversation deepened. They talked about cars first—her G-Wagon, his work, the small quirks of engines that only true enthusiasts cared about. Then, slowly, they drifted into lighter topics: her travels, his background, the things he wanted but never had.
Jason kept his answers tight, revealing enough to intrigue her but never everything. She loved it—his restraint, his quiet strength. Confidence wasn't always loud.
And all the while, Jason reminded himself: Don't feel weak. Don't fold. Play this right.
The dining room, with its golden glow and expensive wines, felt almost like a date. But under the warmth, Jason could feel the test beneath her smile—the game of power, wealth, and presence. And for the first time, he realized he wasn't entirely outmatched.