Stolen Fortune, Stolen Heart: The Caged Ward

The silence in the back of the Maybach was heavy, a physical weight pressing against Cinnamon's chest. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the rain streak the city lights into abstract paintings of red and gold. Her breath fogged the glass, a small cloud appearing and disappearing with each exhalation.

Beside her, Arturo was a statue. He had opened a leather-bound folder and was reading under the dim reading light, but Cinnamon noticed he hadn't turned a page in ten minutes. His reflection in the window was ghostly, his jaw set so tight she wondered if his teeth would crack.

The adrenaline from the gala was fading, leaving behind a crushing exhaustion. Her eyelids felt like lead. She fought it, trying to stay alert, trying to plan her next move, but the rhythmic hum of the tires on the wet asphalt was hypnotic.

Her head dipped. She jerked it back up.

Arturo didn't move.

She blinked, her lashes heavy. The darkness of the car was warm. Her head dipped again, lower this time. Her neck muscles gave up. She slid sideways, her temple heading straight for the hard plastic of the door handle.

A hand shot out.

Arturo caught her head inches from impact. His palm was broad and warm, cupping her cheek with a gentleness that was shocking after the violence of the evening.

He didn't push her upright. He didn't wake her.

Slowly, carefully, he guided her head down until it rested on his shoulder.

Cinnamon let out a soft, unconscious sigh. She nuzzled into the expensive wool of his suit, her nose filling with that scent-cedar, scotch, and him. It was the smell of safety. In her sleep, her hand drifted up and clutched the lapel of his jacket.

Arturo froze. He looked down at her, his expression shattering. The mask of the cold executive fell away, revealing a raw, terrifying hunger. He stared at the curve of her eyelashes, the slight part of her lips.

He raised his other hand, hovering it over her hair. His fingers trembled slightly. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to bury his hands in her hair and tell her that he was burning the world down just to keep her warm.

"Why do you have to fight me?" he whispered, the sound barely audible over the rain. "Why can't you just stay in the safe house I built for you?"

He lowered his hand, his fingers brushing through her dark curls, a touch as light as a ghost.

Buzz.

The vibration came from Cinnamon's clutch on the seat between them.

Arturo's hand stilled. His eyes hardened instantly. He reached into her bag and pulled out her phone.

The screen lit up with a message.

Mia: Bad news. The background check for the Academy came back flagged. 'High-level interference.' It's him, Cin. Your house wolf blocked it.

Arturo stared at the message. His jaw clenched. He unlocked her phone-he knew her passcode, of course; it was his birthday, a fact she claimed was just for convenience but one he secretly hoarded like gold.

He deleted the message. Then he deleted the call log to the private investigator she had contacted last week.

He placed the phone back in the bag.

Cinnamon stirred. She shifted, her eyes fluttering open. For a second, she was disoriented, surrounded by warmth and the steady beat of a heart beneath her ear. Then she realized where she was.

She sat up abruptly, scrambling back to her side of the car. "I... I fell asleep."

Arturo was already looking at his file again, his glasses back on, his face a mask of indifference. He smoothed the lapel she had wrinkled. "Clearly."

Cinnamon fixed her hair, her heart racing. "How long until we're back?"

"Ten minutes." He didn't look up. "Since you're awake, we should discuss your credit card statement. Five thousand dollars to a 'consultancy firm' in Queens?"

Cinnamon went cold. That was the retainer for the PI to look into her father's old partners. "I... I bought a vintage Hermès. It was a cash-only estate sale."

Arturo turned a page. "You hate Hermès. You say the orange looks tacky."

"I changed my mind."

He looked at her then, over the rim of his glasses. "Don't lie to me, Cinnamon. You're terrible at it. And don't spend money on things that can't help you. I see every transaction."

"Is there anything in my life you don't own?" she snapped.

"No."

The car turned through the massive iron gates of the Watts Estate. The gothic mansion loomed ahead, dark and imposing against the stormy sky. It wasn't a home; it was a fortress.

When the car stopped, Mrs. Higgins, the housekeeper, was waiting at the door under an umbrella. She looked flustered.

"Mr. Watts," she said as Arturo stepped out. "It's Miss Tiffany. She's in the library. She's... throwing things."

Arturo sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Go to your room, Cinnamon."

"But-"

"Go."

Cinnamon walked up the grand staircase, her heels clicking on the marble. But she didn't go to her room. She stopped at the landing, kicked off her shoes, and crept back down in her stocking feet.

The library door was ajar.

"...ruining everything!" Tiffany's voice was a screech. "She's a curse, Arturo! First the brooch, now the press is digging into the family trust again. You can't keep her here!"

"I will keep her wherever I choose," Arturo's voice was low, vibrating with a menace that made Cinnamon shiver. "And if you touch her again, Tiffany, I will cut off your trust fund so fast you'll be working at a diner in Jersey by Tuesday."

"You're protecting her like she's precious!" Tiffany sobbed. "You know what her father did! He stole from us! And now she's going to ruin the IPO! The investors won't back a company with a scandal-ridden mascot!"

Cinnamon pressed her hand over her mouth.

IPO.

Arturo was taking the company public.

"The IPO will proceed," Arturo said, his voice icy. "And my father's campaign will proceed. She is essential to both. You will learn to live with it." "And Cinnamon is not the liability. You are. Get out of my sight."

Cinnamon scrambled back up the stairs before Tiffany could storm out. Her heart was pounding in her throat.

An IPO meant Arturo needed clean books. He needed stability. He needed a perfect public image.

He wasn't keeping her just for control. He was keeping her because he was vulnerable. He was under pressure.

She closed her bedroom door and leaned against it, a slow smile spreading across her face.

He had blocked her FBI application because he was afraid. Not for her, but for himself. If she dug too deep, she might find the dirt that would sink his IPO.

She wasn't helpless anymore. She had leverage.