Gianna felt a multitude of emotions all at once—first being a white-hot anger, one so scorching it was sufficient enough to burn through an entire nation without leaving a pebble behind.
But that wasn't all. No, her fury was merely the ringleader of the entire circus of emotions stampeding through her chest.
There was disbelief—sharp, cold, and insulting—how dare Zane do this? How dare he even breathe?
Then came betrayal, so deep it felt like someone had shoved their hand into her chest and squeezed her heart like cheap stress foam. Hurt followed, creeping in with soft feet but sharp claws.
And beneath all of that simmered a humiliation so potent she could practically hear it sizzling, like oil in a frying pan.
And threaded through every emotion was rage, the kind that made her vision pulse and her fingers curl around the small box until the cardboard bent awkwardly out of shape.
She imagined Zane's face instead of the box and mentally crushed it over and over again.
Curses upon curses upon Zane, she thought viciously.
May his socks always feel wet. May his favorite pen always run out of ink just before signing something important. May he choke on a grain of rice.
She didn't need to drink the pill when there was no womb to keep a baby—to grow a baby—she thought bitterly, her mind spiraling deeper into her fury.
She was completely unaware of the driver staring at her through the rearview mirror. The poor man had been asking for the direction in which he was supposed to head, and was now thinking he had probably offended some ancestral guardian and was being punished by carrying this woman today.
"Ma'am…" the male, who looked to be in his late thirties, called impatiently—loud enough to finally slice through the haze clouding Gianna's brain.
She cut him a tired, deadly look. "Just drive."
The male blinked, more confused and frustrated than ever. Just drive? To where??
He looked the female over, head to knee, calculating her possible net worth just from the quality of her clothes. When he was satisfied that she could foot the bill no matter where he ended up, he gave a curt nod, hit the gear, and drove out of the parking lot of the jewelry company.
Meanwhile, Gianna—driven to push Zane far from her orbit already—opened the packet of pills and did the needful.
She took a swig of water to wash down the pill, another to cool the pain settling like molten metal in her heart, then another to chug the anger back down before she combusted.
Then she snapped a picture of the open packet and the half-drunk bottle of water, and sent it to the number written on the paper. Without waiting for the message to even tick "read," she blocked the number and deleted it.
Then she exhaled in relief, like she had finally gotten rid of a troubling boil on her buttocks.
She leaned deeper into the seat, resting her head on the apex, her eyes shifting to the window, watching the buildings and people pass by in a blur.
"To Oklahoma Estates…" she called after a moment, deciding this was not the time to run home.
She couldn't involve old Mr. Thorne and his wife in her troubles—or even Athena. Never mind that they could open a company for her to run if need be.
She chuckled at the thought, tension easing a little from her shoulders.
No… she would fix this on her own. This was her life, and she would be damned if she let something as flimsy as this knock her down and out.
She inhaled deeply and repeated her request to the driver, as he was still driving on the same route—which she knew wouldn't lead to Oklahoma Estates, one of the best in the city, reserved for the elite in the state.
"Okay, ma'am. I didn't hear you the first time."
Having firsthand experience with Athena's traumatic encounters with cab drivers, she refused to close her eyes and relax. Her eyes remained wide open, fixed on the route, until they got to the estates—until they got to Dane's house in particular.
"Don't leave…" she said quickly as she opened the door. "I will be right out. Give me ten minutes."
Hopefully ten minutes would be enough for what she wanted to tell Dane.
"Okay ma'am," the driver replied, turning off the ignition, already calculating the amount he would charge this woman who was beginning to look like good fortune in heels.
Outside the gate, Gianna pressed the gate alarm, hoping she wouldn't be here for long. Nothing happened at first, so she dialed Dane's number. Again, no answer.
What the hell was happening? Why wasn't he picking her calls? Did he want to die?!
She pressed the tab again. This time, the smaller gate swung open, revealing someone in a uniform—whom Gianna assumed was either a gateman or butler.
"Hello…" she began.
"Who are you? What are you doing here?" he asked stiffly.
"I'm looking for Dane. I'm his partner at work?"
The male looked her over again—from her hair down to the shoes that were beginning to murder her feet.
"Miss Gianna Aldo?"
Gianna furrowed her brows but nodded. If he knew her name, then Dane must have mentioned her.
"Come in. My boss has been waiting for you a while."
Gianna blinked. If Dane had been wanting to see her, why had he ignored her calls?
"Thank you," she murmured, still confused, and walked into the compound.
The estate house was stunning.
Bougainvillea flowers climbed the walls in a cascade of purple and pink. The driveway was paved with smooth grey stones that sparkled faintly in the afternoon light. The building itself was a tasteful blend of modern and classic—a cream-colored exterior with dark wood accents, tall windows framed with black steel, and a glass-paneled balcony on the upper floor.
Ornamental shrubs lined the walkway, trimmed with military precision. The front porch had marble steps and a hanging lantern that looked like it belonged in an expensive catalog.
"This way," the male said, pointing toward the front porch.
Inside, the living room was spacious and elegant. A plush, ash-gray rug covered the center. The furniture was minimalist yet expensive—cream sofas, a glass coffee table with gold trim, abstract artwork on the walls, and warm lighting that made everything glow.
Soft jazz played in the background, almost drowned out by the sound of pacing.
Because Dane was pacing. Back and forth. Long strides. Shoulders stiff. Fingers dragging through his hair.
Gianna's eyes drifted to the packed bags beside the armchair. Where was he going?
"Dane, what is going on?"
She could read the worry etched all over his face. "And why haven't you been picking my calls?"
He gestured for her to sit, but how could she when his restlessness was rattling her bones? She'd only seen him like this during critical company crises.
As if reading her mind, he sat first, then motioned again. This time, she obeyed.
She repeated her question.
"I lost my phone. That's why I haven't picked your calls, or sent across a message."
He sighed audibly, looking both confused and dejected at the same time, appearing older than his forty-two years.
"And I am sorry about the company. I know I should have told you, but there was no time."
Gianna frowned. "Time for what?"
No response.
Dane's eyes were shifty, unable to focus on her. She knew something was wrong—something he wasn't telling her. This wasn't about a trip.
"Nothing really… the travel… I have to go."
"What is happening, Dane?"
She leaned forward, clasping her hands tightly. "You can talk to me about anything. Did Whitman do anything? Did he threaten you?"
His head snapped toward her so fast she startled.
Aha. She was onto something.
Had that cow threatened her boss just so she could work for him? That was too low for Whitman—but then again, he was his father's son. Evil begot evil.
"You don't have to cower under him, Dane… I can—"
"No." Dane shook his head sharply. "Whitman had nothing to do with this. If anything… he helped me."
His response was hurried. Harried. Suspiciously defensive.
Gianna didn't believe a syllable.
"Dane…"
He stood abruptly, paced again, then pulled a cheque from his pocket and handed it to her.
Gianna's eyes widened at the amount written there.
But what about her job? Her dignity?
Was this Zane's handiwork?
"What is this?"
"It's not much," Dane whispered. "But I'm sorry. I know how much you loved your work. Please don't refuse. I don't think my conscience can take it."
Gianna gritted her teeth, stood, collected the cheque, and was two seconds from tearing it up. But she wasn't stupid. She couldn't understand what was happening yet.
"Tell me, Dane. Whitman is behind this, right?"
Dane wouldn't meet her gaze again. Eyes shifting, guilt leaking through the silence.
A deep breath escaped him before he finally said: "Just go, Gianna… and don't make any trouble."
Gianna's hands fisted at her sides. Oh, she was going to make trouble.
She was going to make a whole lot of trouble.