Page 5

CHAPTER 5

Haze

Are all teenagers this problematic? Does she not understand hierarchy?

She dares even to say the word “demand” to me…

I hold her gaze. “You don’t get to make demands.”

“Hear me out.” And she looks up at me with those big, blue eyes.

She’s too fucking cute for her own good. I want to spank her ass, but instead, I relent. “Alright, but make it quick.”

“I’ll go with you,” she offers. “And I’ll make it easy for you. I won’t fight you.”

“And in exchange?” I ask.

She takes a deep breath, exhaling a string of words. “Tonight, my family comes home safe and sound. And your men will take Carter back to his house—alive and well. And leave him alone.”

“That’s two demands,” I say. “When you don’t get to make any. I’m taking you with me—fight or not.”

“It’s my family…” Her lip quivers, and it’s my undoing.

“Your family will be safe,” I tell her. “I can’t say that others who have attempted to steal from the Bachmans have been granted the same fate.”

“Okay. Good.” She exhales a shaky breath. “What about Carter?”

The boy I’d like to kill.

I slide a hand in my pants pocket. “I was looking forward to giving my men orders to rough him up after what he put you through.”

Her brows shoot up. “What did you hear?”

“I heard enough.” My fingers curl into a fist inside my pocket. “He’s lucky I’m letting him live.”

“Letting him live…” She repeats back my words, her eyes filling with fear as she accepts the kind of man I am.

“I will let him live,” I say. “For now. If he lays one finger on you again?—"

Not wanting to hear more, she cuts me off. “Okay, I get it. I’ll do as you say for tonight.”

“And after that?” I ask.

A sudden surge of bravery takes over. “We’ll see how I feel.” She lifts the duffle bag strap to hang it over her shoulder.

“If you want to risk it.” I take the bag’s strap from her hands before it touches her shoulder, pulling it over my own. I smooth my hand over her denim-covered curves, pulling her tight against me. Our bodies press against one another, my heat transferring with hers. “It’s your ass on the line.”

She blushes, knowing I’m speaking literally. Pulling away from my grasp, she leans down, reaching for a backpack on the floor. I grab the bag before she can lift it and toss it over my other shoulder.

Nodding at the bed, I say, “Get your quilt. You’ll want something from home.”

She goes to argue. “I don’t want to take anything else?—”

“Our deal?” I say.

“Fine.” She grabs the rumpled quilt from the bed, adding a pillow for good measure.

I reach out to take them. “I’ll carry those for you.”

“I’ve got it. I can carry them myself.” She starts to brush by me.

I gently grab her elbow, giving her a soft squeeze in reminder. “Ophelia.”

She hands me the bedding without another word.

She’s learning quickly. Kind of.

We leave the apartment, stepping out into the crisp night. I’m hoping for a moment of peace, but even the two flights of stairs don’t slow her down. She has more questions—too many—and she asks them freely.

“Why were they invited to the Villa in the first place?” She peeks over her shoulder at me. “Do they know about our arrangement?”

I shift the strap of the duffle higher up on my shoulder. How much should I tell her? I decide to give her the basic outline.

“Last night, your family received a call inviting them to the Villa tonight for a big announcement about your education,” I explain.

“Ah,” she says, turning the corner to descend the next flight of stairs. “My mom mentioned something about the invitation and dinner this morning when I was clearing up breakfast.”

“Tonight, over Wagyu steaks and wine, Emilia is charming them, and Liam is telling them that you’ve won a Bachman-sponsored scholarship for international travel and that you’ll be studying abroad next semester.”

She piles on the questions. “Wouldn’t I have been at the dinner too? Don’t they expect me to be home when they return? They’ll wonder where I am.”

“The Bachman Foundation for Higher Education does exist, and each year chooses a student to sponsor to study abroad. We’d never pick one from a school as affluent as yours.” Weighed down by the bags, she’s getting ahead of me. I don’t want her more than an arm’s reach away. “Slow down.”

She eases her stride. “So why wouldn’t I have been invited to this fancy dinner?”

“Parents are brought to a dinner whenever a gift is announced, and a professional film crew surprises the student alone in their home. They pack their bag, then they’re immediately whisked away,” I explain.

“Thank goodness you didn’t bring a film crew. Would have been X-rated,” she quips.

We reach the exit door and step outside. She takes a few focused breaths as I struggle to catch mine.

Stalling with sneakers planted on the sidewalk, she peers up at me. “What about the money my mom owes you? Didn’t you say you were going to punish her? Make her pay? Are you ever going to tell her you’ve kidnapped me for payment?”

“I will when the time is right,” I admit.

She throws her hands on her hips, eyeing me. “Making sure I’m marriage material first?”

Liam wanted it this way—not me. I would have rather broken down the door and ripped Ophelia from Leah’s arms for what she did to me. I have no idea why he asked me to take this slow.

It wasn’t my choice, but I need the air of control, so I say, “I’m biding my time.”

“You’ll have to tell my grandma the truth.” She shakes her head. “I feel sorry for you when that time comes. You’ll need your full security on board.”

“Let’s focus on the present,” I say, ready to be in the car.

She’s eyeing the door to the stairs behind her. She’s stalling, trying to find an escape route, she asks, “Why me, though?”

“Don’t even think of running,” I say. “I may be out of breath from those stairs, but I promise—I will catch you.”

“I wasn’t thinking of running,” she lies. “I just want to ask a few questions before I hop in a stranger’s car.”

“Like what?” I snap.

She shrugs, lifting her brows in an attempt to look innocent. “Tons of people have crossed the Bachman family, I’m sure. Couldn’t you choose from one of them? I mean—you all are millionaires, for goodness’ sake. There’s got to be some gold diggers out there eyeing you guys.” She takes a step away from me.

“Billionaires, actually,” I correct her, stepping forward and closing the gap between us.

Taking another step back, she says, “I’m sure there are women falling over themselves to marry a Bachman billionaire. You know—it’s not too late. You all could send me on a little trip, and at the end of the semester, I magically pop back up. What my mom did wasn’t that bad.”

Not that bad?

I step closer.

Heat and rage boil inside me. I tell myself to calm down—she’s young and na?ve. She has no idea about these things.

What her mother did to me…

She stole from me. She disrespected me. She made me the laughingstock of the Brotherhood for a time, having gotten swindled by an online dating profile.

Those things—I could forgive.

Leah took something away from me that she should never have given me. Hope. And for that, she will pay.

It would have been her had I not driven by and seen Ophelia that day and wanted her so badly. I don’t know why Liam asked me to wait to tell Ophelia’s family the truth about our arrangement, but he did. And so, I will.

For a moment, she debates, hovering where she stands. I watch closely, ready to drop everything and take off after her. She bites her bottom lip, looks at the stairs, then back at my face.

I move in, leaving no room between us as I stare down at her. “You really don’t want to run. It won’t be pleasant for you when I catch you.”

Whatever she sees in my eyes makes her shake her head and say, “I told you—I’m not running.”

We walk to the street side-by-side in silence.

My driver, Nico, is waiting for us beside the black Alfa Romeo Giulia Quadrifoglio. He’s young and eager, hoping to move up in the ranks with his broad, white grin and boulder-like build. He loves this car. He opens the door with a smile that he’s had pasted on his face since he first got behind the wheel.

Handing the bags and bedding to Nico, I guide Ophelia into the back. I didn’t choose this car only because it’s Nico’s favorite—it has a roomy back seat that we might need.

Depending on how she chooses to behave.

A smoky privacy screen is already in place, making the vehicle's cab wholly soundproof and secluded from the driver and the rest of the world.

The moment we’re inside the warm cab, she shrugs out of her coat, placing it on the seat between us like a barrier. I observe, ensuring she buckles her safety belt while thinking of my reckless teen days. Once we’re settled, I press a button, letting Nico know we’re ready. Smoothly, the Alfa pulls away from the curb.

“What’s that for?” She points at the privacy screen. “So you can murder people back here?” Her leg shakes, her knee bouncing up and down as she waits for an answer.

“Stop.” I place a hand over her knee to still her. “You’re going to shake us off the road.”

“Sorry.” She throws me a glance. “I’m nervous.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Seriously?” She stares back at me. “The whole ‘kidnapping-arranged-marriage thing?’”

“Oh—that.” I’m perfectly content with our arrangement. I’d forgotten she’s not. “Right. The screen is not for murders. It’s for our privacy. The side windows are tinted, as well. No one can see in, but you can see out.”

They’re also bulletproof. Seeing as she’s just asked me if we murder people in this car, I think it’s best not to mention bullets.

“The tint is extremely dark.” She squints into the night. “Why do you need windows that no one can see into if you’re not murdering people back here?—”

I slide a hand from her knee and up her thigh, squeezing, cutting off her words. “People like to do other things in private, you know.”

Pushing my hand away, she resumes bouncing her knee. “When I’m nervous, I either freeze up or talk incessantly.”

“Incessantly and fast,” I murmur back. “I’m getting the idea this is one of those nervous, talking times.”

“Maybe,” she shrugs, looking out her window. “At least I can see out of this window. Kind of.” Her voice is low. “You seem to know everything about me. I don’t even know your name.”

It hadn’t occurred to me that I didn’t tell her.

“Harrison—” And almost say “Harden,” my last name from another lifetime that I haven’t spoken in a decade. Harrison Harden no longer exists. “Bachman. Harrison Bachman. But I go by Haze.”

“Harrison.” She looks at me then, a smirk curling on her pretty lips. “You go by Haze because you don’t want people calling you Harry?”

“No,” I lie.

“I think it is,” she says, eyeing me closer. “I think you go by Haze because you don’t want people calling you Harry—like Prince Harry. You know, Harrison can be shortened to other things. Hank. Harris. Sonny—oh, what about that one for you?”

She chats when she’s anxious, so I appease her. “Sonny?”

“Sonny,” she says. “Sonny to suit your sunny disposition.”

“No.” I shake my head. “Absolutely not.”

“How about ‘Little Ray of Sunshine?’” She grins. “Sunny Sunshine Man?”

Inwardly, I groan. “Stop.”

Enjoying how uncomfortable her game makes me, she waggles her brows. “Sunny Bunny? Honey the Sunny Bunny?”

Referring to me having a cotton tail is my hard limit.

“Enough.” I bend toward her, whispering in her ear. “Unless you want to give the driver a show and end up back over my lap.”

She shifts away from me, finding a safer place by the car door. Changing the subject, she says, “I like Haze. Where did that come from?”

“My father.” Mentioning him shoots a pain through my chest.

“Is he a Bachman, too?” she asks.

I don’t need to tell her that my father’s dead, let alone about my estranged mother killing him. My harsh tone attempts to end the topic. “No, he’s not a Bachman.”

Staring out the window, she murmurs to herself. “I don’t know much about my dad.” Suddenly, deep in thought, she goes quiet. She must be shifting into her quiet nervous phase.

Her silence allows my mind to wander, and I wonder what she does know about her father. Did he give Ophelia’s mother the pearl necklace that’s now absent from her neck? Is that why she never takes it off—is it a connection to him?

What I know about her father is minimal. His name was Tartan Erwin. He was involved in the King’s Mafia in Scotland. A rival gang member shot him. Ophelia had been in his arms only moments before the murder.

Her mother and grandparents moved with her to Italy soon after.

If I didn’t have to marry to move up in the Brotherhood, I’d never take a woman home to the Villa. For sure, I wouldn’t be sharing a car with a girl still in school. Our paths would never have crossed if it weren’t for her mother’s mistakes.

Was it fate that brought us together?

Some would say there are no coincidences. They would argue that there was an underlying reason I felt the need to go to Emilia’s that particular day and set up the online dating profile. That fate guided my hand, making me click on the fake picture Leah had posted to her profile, forcing me to write back and forth, flirting. Even—I cringe—allowing me to let my guard down enough to set up a meeting with her.

Far from the Villa, putting myself in a vulnerable position.

I don’t believe in fate. I was foolish. I took the bait.

I think of that day in the park. Even a hardened bachelor like me could agree it was a romantic spot for a first date. I waited anxiously for Leah, barely able to believe I’d finally connected with someone—online, no less.

I stood there, the sun warming my face, the tall grasses blowing in the breeze, my chest filled with something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Meeting Leah online, all those chats, the flirty emails, the provocative pictures I’d later find after tracing the IP address, weren’t even her; they gave me the illusion that someone like me—bitter and ruined by his past— could have a real marriage.

Leah forced the most dangerous thing onto me.

Hope.

She made me think I could love someone.

Then, she stole it away.

I stood there, even when she was fifteen minutes late. Twenty. Even when she was thirty minutes late, I hadn’t given up. She’d asked me to leave my phone in the car so we could have a simple date. Just us and the moor.

I needed to return to the car park and get my phone. There would be a message from her or a missed call explaining her delay. Instead, an elderly couple appeared from the trees, wandering off the path.

They approached me before I could reach the car park, asking me for directions. The woman, clutching the arm of the man, stumbled as they made their way back to the path. I rushed over to help, kneeling down and wrapping my arms around her to steady her.

There were no missed calls or texts when I got to my phone. I tried to send a message on the dating app but was blocked. I drove home in a daze. I couldn’t believe Leah had stood me up without so much as a call or message.

I spent the evening drinking whiskey and scouring the app for any profile that resembled her, but she was just gone. I drank, grieving what I thought I’d lost in her.

It was morning before I realized my wallet was gone from my jacket.

It was a setup. The whole thing—the texts, the messages, the pictures—none of it was authentic. It was all a ploy to see if she could lure me to the middle of nowhere, using two elderly pawns to rob me.

Now, Ophelia and I will both pay the consequences.

‘Til death do us part.