Chapter 4 - The Black Towncar
Five minutes later, Clarissa pushed through the revolving glass doors of the Bristol & Mercer building onto Adams Street.
A heavy, wet Chicago mist was falling, turning the concrete the color of a wet slate roof. Parked right in the red zone, hazard lights blinking, was an obsidian-black Mercedes Maybach that looked like it had been carved from solid steel.
As she approached, the rear passenger door swung open silently from the inside.
Inside, the leather smelled of rich cedar and expensive bourbon. Julian Vance sat in the center of the spacious back seat, wearing a charcoal-gray overcoat, his dark hair immaculate, his sharp jaw shadowed by a morning beard. He looked like an executive who spent his mornings reviewing corporate mergers and his afternoons burying people who crossed him.
“Get in, Clarissa,” he said, not smiling, holding out a large, warm hand to help her over the threshold.
She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then slid into the plush leather seat beside him. The door shut with a heavy, vacuum-sealed thud that cut off the noise of the city entirely.
“You are insane,” Clarissa said, her chest heaving as she pulled her coat tightly around her. “You can’t just abduct people in the middle of a workday.”
“I didn't abduct you,” Julian replied smoothly, gesturing to a sleek black container resting on the center console. “I invited you. And I brought coffee. Whole milk, two sugars, from that little artisan bakery on Wells Street you like.”
Clarissa froze. She stared at the coffee cup, then up at his dark, unreadable eyes.
“How do you know what kind of coffee I like?”
“I told you last night, Clarissa. You’re an accountant. You look at numbers, you look for patterns, you build models,” Julian said, resting his arm casually along the back of the leather seat just behind her shoulders, though he didn't touch her. “I look at people. When I want to know something, I find out.”
“Is this a threat?” she asked, her voice dropping, a mix of fear and adrenaline spiking through her veins.
“It’s an investment,” Julian corrected, his voice dropping as well, becoming a low, hypnotic rumble. “Last night, a bunch of bored, skinny socialites tried to use you as a punchline. They wanted to humiliate you. They wanted to prove that a woman with curves, a woman with substance, was somehow lesser because she didn't fit their anorexic mold.”
Clarissa flinched. The words hit her like a physical blow, reopening the exact raw wound Samantha had carved into her chest the night before.
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“How do you know what they—”
“I watch everything, Clarissa,” Julian said, his dark eyes locking onto hers with terrifying intensity. “I watched that blonde witch signal her friends. I watched you swallow your pride and walk across that room. And when you kissed me... you weren't playing their game anymore. You were starting a new one.”
