The Billionaire's Secret Obsession: She Is Mine

The sharp staccato of Julianna's heels echoed against the damp concrete of the VIP underground parking garage. She had her phone pinned between her ear and her shoulder, her fingers blindly digging into the depths of her leather tote bag.

"Mom, I am not bringing Nathaniel to Thanksgiving dinner," Julianna said, her voice tight.

"Julianna, he is a perfectly good man. You are twenty-nine. You can't keep avoiding this." Her mother's voice pierced through the speaker, shrill and unyielding.

Julianna let out a harsh breath. She shoved her hand deeper into the bag, searching for her car keys. The metal teeth of the zipper bit into her index finger.

She hissed, pulling her hand back. A thin line of blood welled up on her skin. Her footsteps faltered for a fraction of a second.

From the blind spot behind a massive concrete pillar, a black Maybach glided forward. It moved like a ghost, its headlights completely dead. It slid into the exact path she was walking.

Julianna didn't look up. She was too busy sucking the blood off her finger and searching for a bandage. Her body kept moving forward on autopilot.

She slammed hard into the surprisingly warm metal of the car's hood.

The impact knocked the breath out of her lungs. She stumbled backward, her shoulder dropping. The tote bag slipped from her grasp and hit the concrete.

Everything spilled out. Pens, a compact mirror, tampons, and a tube of expensive Tom Ford lipstick clattered across the floor.

The lipstick rolled away, coming to a dead stop right beneath the massive front right tire of the Maybach.

Julianna's heart hammered against her ribs. She snapped her head up, peering through the dim, yellowed light of the garage. She waited for the driver's door to open. She waited for an apology or a curse word.

Nothing happened.

The Maybach's windows were tinted so black they looked like solid obsidian. She couldn't see a face. She could only make out the vague, broad silhouette of a man sitting behind the steering wheel.

She took a deep breath, raising her right hand in a quick, apologetic wave.

"Julianna? Are you listening to me?" her mother squawked through the phone still clutched in her hand.

Julianna hit the end button, cutting her mother off. Her cheeks burned with humiliation.

She crouched down to gather her things. As she shifted her weight, the stiletto heel of her right shoe slid perfectly into the narrow gap of a metal drainage grate.

Her ankle twisted. Her balance vanished.

She went down hard, her bare knee slamming into the abrasive concrete. A sharp, white-hot pain shot up her leg.

She bit down on her lower lip so hard she tasted copper, fighting back the sudden sting of tears. She reached out, stretching her arm toward the tire to grab her lipstick. Her fingertips brushed the concrete, falling exactly one inch short.

Suddenly, the Maybach's engine roared to life. It was a low, guttural growl that vibrated through the floorboards. It sounded like a steel beast waking up.

Julianna flinched, yanking her hand back to her chest. Her stomach dropped to her shoes. She thought the driver had lost his mind and was about to crush her hand.

But the car didn't move an inch. It just sat there, the engine idling with a heavy, rhythmic hum that filled the empty garage.

The silence from the driver was suffocating. He didn't honk. He didn't roll down the window to yell at her.

The hairs on the back of Julianna's neck stood up. She felt a heavy, invasive stare burning through that black glass, pinning her to the ground. It wasn't a casual look. It felt predatory.

She grabbed her ankle and yanked her heel free from the grate. She didn't even bother brushing the dirt off her bleeding knee. She scrambled to grab her compact and her keys, her hands shaking.

She made one last desperate grab for the lipstick. The back of her hand brushed against the warm rubber of the Maybach's tire.

A faint mechanical click echoed from inside the cabin. It sounded exactly like a seatbelt unbuckling.

Panic flared in Julianna's chest. She snatched the lipstick and shot up to her feet. She did not want to deal with whatever eccentric billionaire was sitting inside that car.

She furiously dusted off the hem of her trench coat, gave a stiff, quick bow toward the pitch-black window, and turned around.

The driver gave zero response. The air between them felt thick, almost toxic.

She started walking away, her pace frantic, limping slightly toward her Honda Civic parked three rows down.

Without warning, the Maybach's xenon headlights flashed on. The blinding white beams hit her back, casting a massive, distorted shadow of her body against the far wall.

Julianna squeezed her eyes shut against the harsh glare. She threw her arm up over her face, her feet freezing to the pavement.

Her stomach twisted. She thought he was going to demand money for a scratch on his hood. She braced herself, slowly turning around to face the blinding light.

The second she turned, the headlights snapped off.

The garage plunged back into the murky, depressing gloom. Julianna stood there, her chest heaving, staring at the dark shape of the car, completely paralyzed by the bizarre encounter.