Chapter 8
Keyshawn Vargas practically sprinted onto the main stage, dabbing his sweating forehead with a silk handkerchief.
He forced a booming laugh into the microphone. “Well, what an exciting start to the evening! Now, let us officially announce the Hubbard Group’s capital injection into Vargas Holdings.”
The crowd erupted into polite, enthusiastic applause. The power of billions of dollars instantly erased the memory of the screaming woman.
Gemma stood beside Brion, forced to endure the endless line of well-wishers.
Brion’s hand had migrated from her wrist to her waist. His long fingers dug into the soft fabric of her dress, gripping her hip bone with a possessive, almost painful pressure. It was the physical manifestation of his deep-seated paranoia that she would vanish if he let go.
Instead of pulling away, Gemma shifted her weight, leaning her body entirely against his side.
Brion flinched. His breath hitched audibly. He pulled her closer, his arm wrapping around her back like an iron band.
As soon as the final toast was poured, Brion cut off a rambling hedge fund manager mid-sentence and dragged Gemma toward the exit.
A black, armored Maybach idled at the bottom of the driveway. Alfonso held the door open.
Brion shoved Gemma into the backseat and climbed in after her, slamming the heavy door shut.
The privacy partition between the front and back seats glided up, sealing them in a soundproof vault.
The car accelerated smoothly into the rain-slick Manhattan night.
Brion reached up and violently yanked his tie loose. He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, his chest heaving.
He turned to her, eyes burning with a dark, predatory intensity.
“Why didn’t you run?” he demanded. “Was it the ten percent? Did you think staying would give you more leverage?”
Gemma’s chest ached. He was so used to her hatred that he could only process her presence as a calculated financial move.
She didn’t defend herself. She uncrossed her legs and leaned closer, invading his space.
She looked straight into his dark eyes. “Because I realized you are infinitely more valuable than a starving artist.”
The words hit him like a physical strike. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle popped in his cheek.
He reached out and grabbed her chin, his thumb pressing hard into her jawline.
“If you stay,” he warned, his voice a low, lethal growl, “you don’t ever get to leave. You belong to me.”
Gemma didn’t pull away from the pain. She lifted her hand and placed her palm directly over the back of his hand.
Her skin was warm. Brion’s fingers twitched, a reflexive urge to pull away from the burn of her touch, but she held him there.
“Deal, Mr. Hubbard.” A soft smile touched her lips.
Brion ripped his hand away as if he’d been burned. He turned his head sharply, staring out the tinted window.
His reflection in the glass betrayed him. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, his composure entirely shattered by her compliance.
The Maybach descended into the private underground garage of his Manhattan penthouse.
They rode the private elevator up in total silence.
The penthouse was a sprawling expanse of cold marble, black steel, and glass. It looked exactly like him: beautiful, expensive, and utterly devoid of warmth.
Brion shrugged off his suit jacket and tossed it onto the leather sofa.
“Go take a shower,” he ordered harshly, not looking at her.
Gemma watched his broad back as he walked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. She turned and walked straight toward the massive open-concept kitchen.
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