Layla's POV
The night felt colder outside the club, the kind of cold that makes your skin tighten and your heartbeat sharpen,as if the world is waiting for you to make the wrong choice.
Micheal didn't rush me.
He didn't coax, didn't touch, didn't push.
He just stood there beside the open car door, calm and devastating, like a man who already knew how this moment would end.
But behind him from afar I could see a man looking at us and following our every step.Then I realized it's been like that since I got to the club.he's been looking at me like I was he's prey.I quickly looked back at Micheal.Is it the FBI,Is Denzel having someone follow me or I'm in another trouble.At the Moment,all I wanted was to escape.
His driver stepped back with his gaze lowered, giving us privacy without being asked. That alone told me everything-Micheal Wade didn't request obedience.
It was given.
My pulse pounded against my ribs. I could still taste the tequila on my lips, still hear the faint echo of the club behind us, like a world I no longer belonged to.
His voice broke through the quiet.
"Layla."
My real name.
My blood froze.
He didn't say it loudly.
He didn't say it accusingly.
He said it like a secret he'd been holding in the back of his throat.
A soft exhale, almost relieved.Almost intimate.
I swallowed, heart twisting painfully.
"You…"
My voice cracked. "You don't know me."
His gaze dragged slowly over me, steady, unhurried, painfully precise.
"Yes," he murmured. "I do."
He wasn't talking about the bar anymore.
He wasn't talking about tonight.
The way he said it made something deep inside me fracture.
But something in his eyes rooted me in place.
Not danger.
Recognition.
Curiosity.
A quiet, burning pull I couldn't name.
"Get in the car, Layla," he said softly. "Just sit. Breathe. You can walk away after that."
His tone wasn't controlling.
It wasn't forceful.
It was gentle… in a way that contradicted everything about him.
And maybe that was why it felt so dangerous.
My fingers curled against my palms.
One wrong move and my entire life could collapse.
But staying on the sidewalk wouldn't save from whoever is in the dark..
Running wouldn't fix the trace I triggered .
Hiding wouldn't erase Micheal Wade's name from my fate.
So I inhaled once.
Then stepped forward.
I didn't speak.
I didn't look at him.
I slid into the backseat;and the second the door shut behind me, my fate sealed itself with a soft click that felt louder than thunder.
Micheal rounded the car, his silhouette framed by the streetlights. He got in beside me, the leather shifting under his weight, his warmth filling the small space instantly.
"Drive James"He told his driver.
The driver didn't ask for an address.
Of course he didn't.
The car started moving, smooth and silent.
I stared ahead.
Micheal stared at me.
His voice dropped to a low, dark murmur—the kind that coils heat around your spine.
"You shouldn't be afraid of me, Layla."
I turned my head just enough to meet his eyes.
"That's exactly why I am."
His lips curved-not a smile… something more dangerous.
Outside the tinted window, the lights of Atlanta blurred past as we drove deeper into the city.
And somewhere in my chest, a truth took shape:
I wasn't going home tonight.
I was being taken to his.
The car sliced through Atlanta like it owned every street it touched smooth, fast, silent.
Micheal didn't speak, and somehow that was worse.
His presence filled the space, heavy and controlled, like he was holding himself back from something he wanted.
Something dangerous.
My pulse thudded in my throat, each beat echoing louder than the hum of the engine.
He watched me.
Not the way men stare when they want your body.
This was deeper. Sharper.
Like he was trying to read every thought I'd ever had.
I forced my gaze out the window, but I could feel it .that electricity threading between us, winding tighter with every second.
The car slowed.
We pulled into a private drive,a sleek metal gates sliding open without a code, without a word.
The kind of security only a man like Micheal Wade could own.
A glass-and-steel tower rose above us, black windows reflecting the night sky.
The top floors glowed faintly, warm golden light against the dark, a crown sitting on the city.
His penthouse.
My chest tightened.
This was insane.
Dangerous.
Irreversible.
The car came to a stop inside an underground garage lined with luxury vehicles that probably cost more than my entire existence.
The door beside me opened.
Micheal didn't wait for the driver.
He opened it himself.
"Layla," he said, voice low, steady, impossibly calm.
"Come upstairs with me."
It wasn't a question.
It wasn't a command.
It was an inevitability.
I stepped out, legs unsteady, heart thudding so hard it hurt.
The concrete floor was cold beneath my boots, but the air around him felt warm, charged.
We walked toward a private elevator,no buttons, just a biometric panel glowing faint blue.
Micheal placed his palm on the scanner.
The doors slid open immediately, like even the elevator was conditioned to obey him.
He stepped inside first, turning to face me.
I followed, my breath catching as the doors closed behind us.
The moment they sealed, the silence shifted,thicker, darker, intimate in a way that made my skin buzz.
We were alone.
Truly alone.
The elevator began its smooth ascent.
He watched me again.
Not blinking.
Not hiding anything.
"Why did you lie about your name?" he asked quietly.
My stomach flipped.
Because you are the last man I should be standing this close to.
"Habit," I whispered.
A muscle in his jaw flexed.
Not anger,something more complicated.
Something that looked frighteningly close to desire.
"You don't need to lie to me," he murmured.
His voice was soft… but the softest things can be the most dangerous.
"And you don't need to follow me home," I countered, lifting my chin.
That earned the faintest pull at his mouth.
Not a smile.
A warning.
"I didn't follow you," he said.
"You came with me."
The truth of it shivered down my spine.
The elevator chimed softly.
When the doors opened.
My breath caught.
His penthouse unfolded in front of me:
floor-to-ceiling windows, city lights pouring in like liquid gold;a living room carved in marble and shadow;glass, steel, silence, power.
A space built for a king.
He stepped past me, not touching, but close enough that the heat of him brushed my arm.
Then he turned back, eyes locked on mine, voice dipping into a darker register:
"Layla… don't run."
My knees weakened.
"I'm not running," I whispered."at least not like I did years ago when we were kids"I thought to myself.
He took one slow step toward me.
"No," he said softly. "But you want to."
He stopped inches away.
His scent,sandalwood, clean heat, danger-wrapped around me.
I swallowed hard.
"Micheal…"
His name escaped before I could stop it.
His eyes dropped to my mouth.
When he looked back up, the air snapped between us.
"Say it again."
My heart stuttered.
Micheal took the last half-step, closing the remaining space.
His voice brushed my skin like a touch:
"Say my name… in my home."
My breath hitched.
And just as I opened my mouth—
The penthouse lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then every security screen along the wall lit up at once with a single flashing alert:
UNIDENTIFIED BREACH DETECTED — SYSTEM TRACE ACTIVE
Micheal's eyes darkened.
Slowly.
Lethally.
He turned his head toward the glowing screens
then looked back at me.
And for the first time that night…
He didn't look like a stranger in a bar.
He looked like the man who ruled half of Atlanta.
And the man who might have just caught me.