Page 10 of Jessa & Jaxon (What Happens In Vegas #1)

The tow truck driver finishes hooking up my car and tightening the chains. The early morning air is crisp, but my body is warm with the slow burn of frustration simmering beneath my skin.

“She’s good to go,” the driver says, giving the chains one last tug before straightening. “We’ll drop it at the shop.”

“Fine.”

He waits a beat, maybe expecting more, but I’m not in the mood for small talk. After a moment, he shrugs, climbing into the truck. The engine rumbles to life as he pulls away with my car in tow.

I glance up at her forth-floor apartment window, curtains still drawn. She’s probably still curled under those flannel sheets, knees tucked to her chest.

I hadn’t bothered waking her. What was there to say that hadn’t been said last night?

“I have no interest in a relationship at this point in my life, and you’re the last man I’d want a relationship with.”

I exhale harshly, my breath fogging in the cold air. I’m done chasing a woman who doesn’t want to be caught.

At least, that’s what I tell myself as I climb into the rented SUV and pull away from the parking lot of her building.

I step into my penthouse at 7:00 AM as the security system chimes its welcome. It greets me with climate-controlled perfection and the hushed reverence of expensive emptiness. Everything is as I left it.

“Lights, sixty percent,” I command, and the apartment responds immediately. Unlike some people, technology at least does what I tell it to do.

I toe off my boots, and the silence presses immediately. No soft laughter from the other room. No scent of that jasmine lotion she applies after showering. No lingering warmth from a woman who swore she didn’t want me, even as she trembled in my arms.

My footsteps echo across the marble floor as I move through the living room. The Italian leather furniture is precisely arranged, the art pieces perfectly aligned and the glass surfaces spotless. The cleaning service came yesterday, as scheduled.

I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the weight pressing against my chest. It’s fine. This is how I like it—quiet.

But the lie settles uncomfortably in my gut.

My phone buzzes. A message from Antonio. I should respond and review the quarterly projections. Instead, I head to the home gym. The need to move, to release the restless energy inside me is overwhelming.

Music blasts through the speakers, a heavy bassline rattling the walls as I push through my workout. I go through the motions—lifting, pressing, stretching—but nothing settles the irritation eating at me.

Sweat courses down my body as I increase the weight again. Pain is irrelevant. Weakness is unacceptable. I push until muscles scream in protest, until each breath burns in my lungs.

This was just sex.

Her voice echoes in my head and cut deeper than they should. I slam the barbell back onto the rack, the metal clanging violently. The frame shudders, but it’s nothing compared to the turmoil swirling within me.

JJ lied to me. I saw it in her eyes, in the way she held herself stiff, as if saying it aloud would make it true. She’s running scared, and I’m left here with no playbook or strategy to prove my good intentions.

A week passes. I lose myself in work.

Meetings blur into deals into contracts into expansion proposals.

The office becomes my refuge and my prison.

I arrive before dawn and leave well after dark, letting spreadsheets and conference calls fill the spaces where thoughts of her would creep in.

The grind should be enough. I tell myself it is enough.

It’s not.

Because no matter how many hours I work, no matter how many projects I sign off on, JJ remains stubbornly lodged in my thoughts. And despite all my business acumen, all my supposed skills at negotiation, I’m no closer to figuring out how to win over the one person who matters.

“The team is waiting in the conference room,” my assistant, Claire, says as I skim through the latest acquisition report.

“Let them wait,” I mutter.

Claire hesitates. I can sense her standing there, arms crossed in a way that means she’s about to step beyond professional boundaries. I allow this from her because strategic leaders understand the value of having an assistant who speaks the truth without fear.

“You’ve been on a warpath all week,” she finally says. “Are you okay?”

I lift a brow, meeting her gaze directly. “Do I look like I want to talk about my feelings, Claire?”

She snorts. “No. But you also don’t usually bite people’s heads off for breathing too loudly, so I figured I’d check.”

I don’t dignify that with a response. Instead, I grab my tablet and head to the conference room, ignoring the look she shoots my way.

Inside, Kamal and Antonio are already seated, along with half a dozen department heads. The room buzzes with the low chatter of pre-meeting conversations.

I take my seat at the head. Even as equal owners, Kamal and Antonio flank me on either side, a formation that emerged organically from our earliest days coding in Kamal’s bedroom.

What began with three outcasts huddled around a salvaged computer has transformed into JAK Innovations—named for our initials and built on our complementary strengths.

The department heads wait for my cue. Their postures reflect varying degrees of deference. It’s surreal sometimes how the world bends to accommodate my ambition rather than the other way around. How the skills that once made me a target in high school now make me formidable.

Everyone except JJ. She alone has seen through every layer of my transformation, from the awkward teenager to the man who commands boardrooms. She’s the only person who’s never been impressed by how far I’ve come.

The dichotomy fascinates me. In this room, I control billions with a word or gesture. Companies rise or fall at my command. Yet with her, my usual strategies crumble to nothing.

Logic dictates I should cut my losses. Reallocate resources. Move forward. That’s what I’d tell any associate about a deal this problematic. Identify the sunk cost and pivot. Walk away.

But JJ isn’t a failed acquisition. She’s the only woman I’ve ever loved.

Seven days of silence stretch between us like a chasm. No text. No call. No sign she’s reconsidering. Each passing hour amplifies my frustration until it’s pacing inside my chest and clawing at my concentration.

JJ thinks I’ll move on. That I’ll get bored, just as she predicted. That I’ll prove every doubt she’s ever harbored was justified. The thought ignites a determination that burns hotter than anger.

She forgets who she’s dealing with.

I didn’t build a multi-billion-dollar empire by accepting defeat. I see what others miss. I recognize value before the market catches on. I persist when competitors retreat.

And suddenly, clarity breaks through the haze of defeat. My marriage isn’t a lost cause. It’s my most important investment. JJ isn’t pushing me away because she doesn’t care; she’s protecting herself because she cares too much.

The realization transforms my frustration into purpose. My wife is a woman worth convincing she’s the center of my universe. Because she is. And I’ll find a way to prove it to her.

One of the junior execs, Eric, clears his throat and I’m pulled back to the present. “We should delay the Phoenix rollout another quarter,” he says, shifting nervously under my hardening stare. “It would give us more time to—”

“No.” I don’t need to raise my voice.

Eric shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with challenging me, but foolishly committed to his position. “With all due respect, sir, if we—”

I place my hand flat on the table. The gesture itself is minimal, but the effect is immediate. Complete silence falls across the room. I maintain eye contact with Eric.

“Eric.” I say, calmly. “When I hired you, was it for your expertise in market timing?”

“N-no, sir.”

“Then explain to me why you believe your assessment should override mine on a decision that affects fifty million in projected revenue?” I lean forward. “Or perhaps you’d prefer we discuss the user experience testing that was due on my desk yesterday?”

The color drains from his face. “I’ll get the testing results to you today,” he manages, eyes dropping to the table.

“Two hours,” I correct him. “And a revised timeline for Phoenix that doesn’t involve delays.”

No one else dares to speak.

The meeting wraps up tense and awkward, and as soon as the last person shuffles out, my two business partners turn on me.

“What the hell was that?” Kamal asks, arms crossed.

Antonio studies me like I’m a puzzle missing half its pieces. “Yeah, man. You usually rip people apart with a little more finesse.”

I exhale sharply, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Drop it.”

Kamal scoffs. “Not a chance.” He jerks his head toward the door. “Come on.”

I’m not in the mood to be questioned. I should tell them to back the hell off, that it’s none of their business. Instead, I follow Kamal down the hall, with Antonio on my heels.

We enter Kamal’s a spacious corner office where his collection of African art is displayed.

Hand-carved Makonde figures stand in illuminated cases.

A massive Senufo mask dominates one wall, while a massive Benin bronze mask watches over the room.

Unlike the minimalism of my own office, Kamal’s space tells a story of his heritage and travels.

Dominating the center of the room is a championship-sized pool table. Its burgundy felt a perfect complement to the mahogany bookshelves lining the walls. Kamal immediately moves toward it, selecting a cue from the custom rack beneath a striking Maasai warrior shield.

“Here.” He tosses a cue each to Antonio and me. “Maybe knocking some balls around will loosen that jaw of yours.”

Antonio catches his easily. “Last time we played, I believe someone owes me a rematch.”

We play in tense silence for several minutes, the soft click of balls and occasional sigh the only sounds. After I miss an easy shot—my third in a row—Kamal leans against the table, levels me with a no-bullshit stare.

“Talk.”

“JJ wants to annul our marriage.”

Absolute silence fills the room.

Antonio freezes mid-shot. “Come again?”

“JJ and I are married.”

Kamal finally speaks. “Nah. Nah. You playin’.” His voice is the kind of calm that comes before a man commits murder.

I meet his gaze directly. “Do I look like a man who jokes about marriage?”

I give them a straightforward account of Vegas, the snowstorm, being trapped for nearly two weeks. I’m selective with details, careful to preserve JJ’s dignity while making no excuses for my actions.

“Bruh... you married my sister?” Kamal’s face contorts through a series of emotions I’ve never seen on him before. He gestures with his cue stick in disbelief. “What the hell were you thinking?” His voice rises now, cue stick jabbing toward me.

“I love her,” I admit easily. “I’ve been in love with her for years, Kamal.”

Antonio, who’s been silently taking in the scene, snorts from across the room where he’s examining a bronze sculpture with manufactured interest. “Amor? You?”

Unlike Kamal and me in our suits, Antonio’s dressed in designer jeans and an unbuttoned blazer over a graphic tee.

“It’s not that shocking,” I counter, though Antonio’s skeptical expression suggests otherwise.

“Jaxon, meu amigo, this is like hearing a shark say he’s gone vegan.” Antonio crosses to the bar cart, pouring himself a drink.

Kamal’s lips twist. “You and Jessa can’t have a conversation without biting each other’s heads off.”

“JJ’s stubborn as hell and believes she isn’t relationship material,” I say. “But I can’t stop loving her and frankly, I don’t want to.”

Antonio moves between us. “From what you’ve told us, it seems Jessa doesn’t feel the same way.”

“She does, but she’s holding herself back. Some asshole spooked her.” My jaw tightens. “I’m giving her time before I convince her we’re meant to be.”

Kamal laughs incredulously. “This ain’t one of your business deals where you strong-arm folks into giving you what you want.”

“Listen to the man who actually grew up with her,” Antonio adds, perching on Kamal’s desk. “Your steamroller approach might work in boardrooms, but Jessa’s immune to your intimidation tactics.”

“I grew up with her too,” I remind them, my patience thinning. “And I’m not afraid of a challenge.”

“This isn’t a challenge. It’s a disaster waiting to happen,” Antonio warns. “Jessa’s—”

“My wife,” I interrupt.

“You realize she’s going to kill you, right? Actually kill you,” Kamal says, replacing his cue beside the shield. “And I might help her hide the body.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“You’re completely loco. Certifiably insane, meu irm?o.”

“Speaking of things that happened in Vegas,” I say, leveling my gaze at Antonio, “were you going to tell us about Jasmine being in your suite in Vegas?”

Antonio’s smooth confidence falters. “What?”

“Saw her leaving you room when I came looking for you.”

Kamal’s head snaps to Antonio. “You and Jasmine?”

“That’s—” Antonio waves dismissively. “Completely irrelevant.”

“Says who?”

“Nice try changing the subject, Jaxon, but we’re not done discussing you and Jessa.” Antonio’s expression shifts, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Because I have a way for you to get Jessa to admit her feelings.”

I narrow my eyes, instinctively wary. Antonio’s ideas always mean trouble.

Kamal groans, rubbing his temples. “Oh, hell. This is gonna be some bullshit.”

Antonio ignores him. “You want to know how Jessa really feels about you?”

“Obviously.”

“Then you need to make her see what she’s missing.”

Antonio’s brilliance in business often translates to drama in personal matters. Exactly what I don’t need with JJ.

“The last time I agreed to one of your schemes, I ended up banned from the Venetian with a Sicilian family convinced I’d promised to import their special olive oil,” I remind him.

Antonio laughs. “Did you die though? My schemes work out in the end.”

Kamal crosses his arms. “I’m with Jaxon. Your ideas are insane ninety percent of the time.”

“And the other ten percent?” Antonio challenges, replacing the figurine carefully.

“Revolutionary,” Kamal admits reluctantly. “But this is my sister, not a product launch.”

I take a deep breath, already regretting my next words. “What’s your brilliant idea?”