Page 37 of Veil of Obsession

And fuck, I want to play.

But instead, I watch her leave. I should let her go. Should let this moment dissolve into nothing. Let her disappear into the sea of New York’s elite like she never existed.

But I don’t. I stand there for too long, staring at the empty space where she was, my pulse thrumming like a distant war drum.

A fucking problem.

I roll my shoulders back, exhaling sharply before pushing off the balcony railing. The cold air does nothing to temper the restlessness gnawing at my ribs.

I need out.

The valetbarely has time to react before I snatch my keys from his hand.

“S-sir, are you sure y-you’re okay to dri—” he stammers.

But I slam the door shut before he can finish.

I don’t want a fucking driver. The penthouse is only fifteen minutes away.

I can’t sit in the backseat of a blacked-out car, listening to the silence and pretending I don’t feel the weight of her still clinging to my skin. For some reason, she got under my skin more than any other woman ever has.

I need to move.

The moment my foot presses down on the gas, the engine growls. The city blurs around me, neon and shadows streaking across the windshield as I weave between cars, pushing past the speed limit like it’s a suggestion.

Too fast. Too reckless. Too fucking much.

I tear at my tie, yanking it free and tossing it onto the passenger seat. My shirt is already half unbuttoned, the night’s tension coiled tight in my muscles, simmering just beneath my skin.

I blow past a red light. The blaring horns barely register. Then…

Flashing blue and red in my rearview.

Fuck.

I could stop. Could pull over like a sane man. But I don’t. I keep going.

I take the next turn hard, tires screeching against the asphalt, the wheel smooth in my grip. The sirens wail, growing louder, closer, insistent.

Then another red light.

I run it.

The police car is on me now, tailing close, voice barking through the speaker.

“Pull over. Now.”

I don’t. Not yet.

The rage that’s been simmering all week boils over, spilling into my hands, into my foot pressing down on the accelerator, into the sharp inhale I take as the adrenaline hits.

Another turn. The tires burn against the road, leaving skid marks against the asphalt. The sirens keep up, flashing, screaming, chasing.

Then, the road narrows—no more room to run.

Shit.

I slam the brakes, the car jerking forward before skidding to a stop. The moment the wheels still, doors slam open behind me.