Erica stared out the window, eyes following the blur of city lights as her mind raced faster than the tires spinning beneath her. The cool morning breeze slapped against her skin from the window of the passenger's seat, forcing her to squint as tears flowed freely down her cheeks.
"It is for the family, for their future," she consoled herself. "They might not realize it now, but they will thank me later in the future."
She could only manage to hold herself together when the driver stepped on the brakes unexpectedly.
"You bastard," he cursed at the supposed reason for such.
She looked away from him, not wanting him to see her tears. Her mother's tear-streaked face flashed before her like she was right in front of her, and her tears tripled, no matter how she tried to hold them back.
"27, Golden Estate, Jackson Mansion?" the driver asked, jarring her from her thoughts, and she nodded at him, clutching her bag tightly.
One of its straps was already torn from how she had struggled to take it over their mid-fence while she was running away. The idea was good—laying low till morning to disappear. That way, it wouldn't hurt as much as seeing her leave.
Erica's breath hitched as the car rolled to the wrought-iron gates, which groaned open as though welcoming her into a different world. The driveway stretched like a private highway, flanked by towering hedges so precisely trimmed they looked unreal. Patches of delicate white roses lined the edges, their scent faint but crisp against the morning air.
Then, she saw it—the mansion.
Calling it a house would be an insult. The estate was a kingdom of glass, steel, and stone, sprawling under the twilight like something out of a billionaire's fever dream. Marble columns guarded the entrance, holding up intricate, gold-trimmed arches. Floor-to-ceiling windows reflected the deep blue sky, glimmering as though the entire structure was dipped in stardust. A grand fountain stood at the center of the circular driveway, its crystalline water cascading over sculpted lions with open mouths—regal and intimidating.
The driver cleared his throat, and embarrassment shot through her. Slowly, she swung her legs out, her worn-out flats hitting the pristine pavement—a contrast so sharp it almost hurt. A gust of cool air brushed against her skin, carrying the scent of polished wood, expensive cologne, and something faintly citrusy, like freshly peeled oranges.
Her gaze trailed up the towering mansion again. She exhaled sharply as she tried to take a step, but her legs felt heavier than usual.
"I need encouragement," she whispered to herself, digging her hands into her white shorts. Her eyes widened at the realization.
"No, no, no." She dropped her bag, frantically searching. "This can't be happening."
Her mind flashed back, reminding her of how she had dropped the phone to take the bag out at first, and out of happiness for her success, she forgot to go back for the phone.
She palmed her face, wanting the realization to sink in. "I'm stupid," she muttered. "Now, how do I reach Mia? And that was my only phone."
She bit her lower lip, shoulders sagging. "I just hope the day doesn't get any worse."
Tightening her grip on her bag, she walked to the door. Her fingers hesitated over the knob.
"No guards? No gatekeeper?" Her gaze swept the area. "Am I even in the right place?"
Her eyes shut briefly for a second as the doorbell echoed in her ears. A bead of sweat broke out on her face as she waited for a response, but none came.
She was about to ring again when the door opened.
A man stood there—shirtless, in only shorts.
Erica swallowed, shifting uncomfortably as his gaze lingered on her pink tank top.
"Erm… I was invited by Mrs. Selena," she said, gripping the hem of her shorts like it might summon Selena herself.
He scoffed. "She's my wife. She never mentioned expecting anyone."
His voice was deep, edged with a British accent. The sharp scent of whiskey clung to him. Erica fought the urge to step back as the smell defeated the cologne and the serene environment. She fought the urge to seal her nose between her elbows as his gaze shifted to her face, then to her lips—a while longer—before it went directly to her boobs.
Erica held tighter to the hem of her shorts to hold back her discomfort. Her heartbeat was even faster now, sounding more like a drumbeat, before the sweat on her face trickled into her chest.
Her mind registered: "If he was Mrs. Selena's husband, then it meant that he was Jamal's father."
She held back a gasp that almost escaped her lips as her eyes widened.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Micheal," she said with a curt bow. "Good morning."
He scoffed.
"Too late," he said, then shut the door in her face.
Erica placed a hand on her chest, making sure her heart was still beating. She exhaled heavily, releasing a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
The screeching of cars in the driveway made her spin. Squinting her eyes, she tried to make out who it was.
Her breath hitched as Jamal got out of the car. She didn't need to be told he was the one. It was their second time meeting, but she knew he wasn't just any man. It was him—Jamal Jackson, the youngest CEO of Jackson Retail Corporation, Italy's crown jewel of business and wealth. The man she had only admired from afar, the man whose name made headlines for his brilliance and charm.
Seeing him now, she held back the urge to sue the publishers of those magazines and the directors of the TV stations he had ever appeared in. They did no justice to his looks—that's their crime. He wasn't just handsome; he was the kind of handsome that made the air feel heavier, like the world had paused for a moment to pay attention.
He was tall—impossibly tall—with broad shoulders that made his perfectly tailored suit look like it was stitched directly onto him. His dark hair was sleek, neatly combed back, but there was a rebellious strand or two that refused to obey. His face? It could've been carved by a master sculptor—strong jawline, cheekbones high and sharp, and lips that sat in a firm, no-nonsense line. But it was his eyes that caught her off guard. They were a piercing gray, cold and calculating, like they could see straight through her, peeling back every layer of her thoughts.
He murmured something to a suited man beside him, then turned.
Each step he took toward her echoed in Erica's chest like he was walking directly on her heartbeat.