The Porsche Confrontation
The farewell with Arthur felt brittle, a fragile glass sculpture threatening to shatter at the slightest breath. Marcella didn't linger. She navigated the distance between the house and her waiting Porsche 911 with a sharp, brisk efficiency that discouraged pursuit. Kaelen followed in her wake, his boots rhythmic on the pavement, his presence a deliberate, silent weight at her back.
“Mr. Gable, I'm heading back to Marcella Group. I'll pay you a visit another time,” Marcella had said, her voice clipped, barely acknowledging the man beside her.
“Okay. You should focus on your business. I'm doing fine here,” Arthur had replied, his tone oblivious to the undercurrents swirling between the two younger adults.
“If Jaxon upsets you again, let me know. I'll teach him a lesson.” She hadn't waited for an answer. She pivoted toward Kaelen. “Come with me. I need to talk to you.”
He offered no resistance. He simply followed her out into the crisp air where her driver stood waiting by the sleek, silver vehicle.
“Get in,” Marcella commanded, the order sharp enough to cut glass.
Kaelen slid into the backseat. The moment he settled against the leather, the air in the cabin shifted, thickening with the static of her hostility. She turned her head, fixing him with a gaze so cold it felt like a physical affront.
He could practically feel the frost radiating off her. What was this? He had been gone for fifteen years, yet the vitriol in her eyes was fresh, immediate, and entirely unearned.
“Be honest with me. What is your motive for approaching Mr. Gable?” she demanded, the words dropping like stones into deep water.
Kaelen paused, genuinely taken aback. “Cella, what are you talking about?”
She didn't blink. Her expression remained a mask of severe impatience. “Enough with the act. I don't have that much time to waste on you. Just tell me how much you want! Name your price.”
The hostility was blatant, almost hysterical in its intensity. She didn't see him; she saw a threat. She saw an imposter.
A slow, humorless amusement tugged at the corner of Kaelen’s mouth. He decided to play along, sinking back into the seat with a studied, casual arrogance. “Why didn't you expose me in front of Mr. Gable if you know I'm an imposter?”
He watched her closely. Her reaction was immediate—a tightening of her features that confirmed his theory. She absolutely believed he was a fake.
She didn't answer him. She simply refused to validate him with a response, her jaw set as she stared straight ahead, a wall of silence between them. She had clearly chosen to endure the charade for Arthur’s sake, unwilling to shatter the old man’s fragile happiness by revealing that the boy he thought was Kaelen was, in her eyes, a fraud.
Kaelen offered a dismissive shrug. “Give me a ride home, will you? I'm actually headed in the same direction as you.”
He leaned his head back against the upholstery and closed his eyes.
Marcella didn't argue. She jerked a sharp nod toward the driver, her face a mask of iron. The Porsche roared to life, tires gripping the asphalt as they accelerated, leaving the residence behind in a cloud of exhaust.
The drive was suffocating. Every mile felt stretched, the atmosphere inside the car heavy enough to choke a man. Marcella remained motionless, her eyes fixed on the blurring scenery outside, her silence absolute.
Twenty minutes crawled by. Then, Marcella shifted, her brow furrowing as she glanced out the window. “This is not the way to Marcella Group.”
The driver, Boyd Ames, didn't answer. He didn't even twitch. He kept the wheel locked on its current trajectory.
Marcella’s back went rigid. A sharp, prickling sense of wrongness tightened in her chest.
Moments later, the Porsche swung off the main road, the tires crunching over gravel and dry weeds before the car lurched to a halt in a desolate, abandoned stretch of scrubland. The cityscape had vanished, replaced by the suffocating isolation of the boondocks.
Boyd turned in his seat. The polite mask was gone, replaced by a grotesque, triumphant sneer. “Ms. Highborne, please understand that I'm merely doing my job.”
Marcella’s eyes were arctic. “What is this?”
“Nothing complicated. You'll only have to play along and allow me to take several pictures of you. I won't harm you if you cooperate with me.”
He reached down and yanked the doors into a locked, metallic click. With his other hand, he pulled a camera and a hunting knife from beneath his seat. The blade glinted, sharp and cruel in the dim light of the cabin.
“Ms. Highborne, I believe you're smart enough to make the right decision.”
He looked back at Kaelen, his grin widening, a wet, unpleasant sound. “Young man, you're in luck today. Many people lust over this gorgeous CEO, and you'll be lucky enough to see her naked body today.”
The intent was nauseatingly clear.
Marcella didn't scream. She didn't beg. She stared at Boyd with a terrifying calm. “Are you in cahoots with Mirage Group? Or is Garrett in cahoots with Mirage Group?”
The connection was obvious to her. Her company and Mirage were at each other's throats, and a scandal of this magnitude—compromising photos of her—would be a death blow to her pending public listing. Garrett Mercer, the HR manager who had hand-picked this driver, was the only missing piece of the puzzle.
Boyd’s eyes widened, clearly impressed. “I've heard stories about your intelligence and courage, and now I'm finally getting the chance to witness them for myself!”
He laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “Ms. Highborne, I'm a gentleman who cannot bring myself to humiliate someone as gorgeous as you. Why don't you take off your clothes yourself? If you force me to take action, I'm afraid I'll go beyond taking photos.”
He anticipated resistance. He was already enjoying the power, his eyes hungry, glinting with avarice and dark desire.
He didn't see the hand moving until it was too late.
Kaelen’s grip clamped onto Boyd’s wrist, iron-tight and unyielding. The driver’s sneer vanished, replaced by a look of bewildered shock as he tried to pull away, only to find his arm anchored in place by a force that felt like a hydraulic press.
Kaelen stared at him, his gaze dropping to a temperature well below zero. “How dare you bully Cella in front of me? Do you have a death wish?”
His voice was a low, dangerous rumble. He had spent years in the crucible of war; he could spot malicious intent in a heartbeat. He had known the moment he laid eyes on this man that something was rotten, which was exactly why he had insisted on this ride.
“Watch it, young man!” Boyd snarled, his face contorting in panic and rage. “Isn't a free show enough? You want more, huh?”
He yanked his arm, desperate to retreat, but Kaelen didn't budge.
Crack.
The sound was sickeningly loud in the confined space. Boyd let out a jagged, high-pitched scream as the bones in his wrist shattered under Kaelen’s pressure. The knife clattered uselessly to the floorboards.
“Ow!”
Boyd crumpled, clawing at his ruined arm. Kaelen didn't stop. He tossed the camera into the backseat, unlocked the doors, and Boyd scrambled out, clawing toward the dirt in a pathetic attempt to flee.
He didn't get far. Kaelen was on him instantly, stooping to pluck two small, jagged pebbles from the ground. With a flick of his wrist, he sent them flying. They struck the back of Boyd’s knees with the precision of bullets, buckling the man’s legs and sending him crashing face-first into the dirt.
Kaelen stepped over him, towering and lethal. “I can't even bear to bully Cella. Who are you to take advantage of her?”
He didn't hesitate. He delivered a brutal, snapping kick to Boyd’s ribs.
“Ow!”
Boyd’s cry was cut short. He collapsed, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Kaelen looked down at the man with utter contempt. He viewed this as a mercy; had they been on the battlefield, the man would have been dead. He had limits, and those who dared to touch the seven ladies found themselves on the wrong side of the Sky Reaver Lord.
Marcella stepped out of the Porsche, her chest heaving, her eyes wide as she stared at the scene. The shock was raw, visible in the way her lashes trembled.
“Who on earth are you?” she whispered, the question torn from her.
Kaelen spun toward her. His expression was grim, his eyes burning with a desperate intensity. He didn't speak. He reached down and yanked his pants off, the movement sharp and jarring in the aftermath of the violence. He closed the distance between them, pinning her against the side of the car, his body shielding her from the world.
“Cella, I'm sorry!”
“Mmph!”