Too Late For Regret: The Assistant's Revenge

The morning sun over Manhattan was blinding, reflecting off the glass facades of the skyscrapers like a thousand camera flashes. The traffic on Park Avenue was a slow, crawling beast.

Inside the Maybach, the air conditioning hummed quietly, keeping the temperature at a crisp sixty-eight degrees.

Christina stared at the red taillights of the cab in front of them. Her palms were sweating against the leather steering wheel. She hadn't slept a single minute. Her eyes burned, and her stomach felt like it was full of broken glass.

In the rearview mirror, Jackson was reading a quarterly earnings report. He wore a navy blue suit today, his tie perfectly knotted. He looked rested. He looked invincible.

Christina took a deep breath. The air felt thin. She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, using the sharp metallic taste of blood to anchor her racing heart.

"Mr. Booker," Christina said. Her voice sounded too loud in the quiet car.

Jackson didn't look up. He merely turned a page of the report. "Keep your eyes on the road, Christina."

"Regarding the upcoming merger and your marriage," she forced the words out, her voice trembling slightly before hardening. "I want to terminate the NDA. And I am ending our private arrangement. Effective immediately."

The turn signal ticked loudly in the sudden, absolute silence.

Jackson's hand stopped mid-air. The page of the report crinkled under his grip.

He slowly lowered the file. His eyes lifted to the rearview mirror, meeting hers. The temperature in the car seemed to drop ten degrees. His gaze wasn't just cold; it was lethal.

He let out a low, dark laugh that made the hairs on the back of Christina's neck stand up. He tossed the financial report onto the empty seat beside him.

Jackson leaned forward, his chest pressing against the back of her seat. His breath brushed her ear.

"Terminate?" Jackson whispered, the word dripping with venom. "Who gave you the delusion that you have the right to unilaterally terminate anything?"

Christina swallowed hard, her throat dry. "It's over, Jackson. You're getting married."

"Drive the car," he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating growl.

The Maybach rolled down the concrete ramp into the underground garage of the Booker Building. The tires squeaked against the polished floor. Christina slammed the brakes a little too hard, jerking the car to a halt in his reserved spot.

She didn't wait for him. She hit the button to unlock the doors and unbuckled her seatbelt, her hands shaking so badly she fumbled with the metal clasp.

She just needed to get out. She needed to breathe real air.

She pushed her door open, but before she could swing her legs out, a hand clamped down on her wrist.

His grip was like a steel vice.

"Jackson, let go!" Christina gasped, twisting her arm.

He didn't let go. Instead, he yanked her backward with terrifying force. Christina let out a sharp cry as she was pulled over the center console, tumbling awkwardly into the spacious back seat.

She crashed against his chest. Before she could push away, Jackson's hand shot up and gripped her jaw, his fingers pressing hard into her cheeks. He forced her face up, making her look directly into his eyes.

They were black with fury. A raw, violent possessiveness radiated from him, suffocating her.

"The NDA has no expiration date," Jackson said, his voice a harsh rasp. "Unless I tear it up."

Christina's eyes filled with angry, hot tears. She pushed her hands against his solid chest, trying to wedge some space between them. "You are marrying Carson Wall! What am I supposed to be? Your dirty secret until you get bored?"

The mention of Carson's name didn't bring guilt to his eyes. It brought rage.

Jackson's jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He looked down at her mouth, his breathing turning ragged.

"You are mine," he snarled.

He grabbed the collar of her crisp white silk blouse. With one violent jerk, he ripped it open. The small pearl buttons popped off, scattering across the leather seats like tiny hailstones.

Christina gasped in shock, crossing her arms over her exposed lace bra. "Stop!"

Jackson ignored her. He tangled his hand in the hair at the back of her head, pulling her head back, and crashed his mouth down onto hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a punishment. It was a brand.

His lips were brutal, forcing her mouth open. He tasted like mint and dark coffee. Christina tried to turn her head, making a muffled sound of protest, but his grip on her hair held her completely still.

Her hands beat against his shoulders, but hitting him was like hitting a brick wall. He didn't even flinch.

The red security lights of the garage swept across the tinted windows of the Maybach, casting harsh, bloody shadows over them. The air in the back seat grew thick and hot.

Jackson finally pulled back, breaking the kiss. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling against hers. His eyes were wild, completely stripped of his usual corporate control.

He reached over her and pressed the intercom button on the door panel.

"Ben," Jackson said, his voice hoarse.

The voice of his head of security crackled through the speaker. "Yes, Mr. Booker?"

"Clear the executive floor. Lock down the private elevator. We are going straight to the penthouse."

"Understood, sir."

Christina's eyes widened in pure panic. She shook her head frantically. "No. Jackson, please. I have to go to work. I have to-"

He hit the button to raise the privacy partition, cutting off the front seat.

"You aren't going anywhere," he said.

He didn't wait for her to fix her torn shirt. When the car door opened, he grabbed her around the waist and hauled her out. Christina stumbled, her heels scraping the concrete.

He half-carried, half-dragged her to the private elevator. She hit his arm, her nails digging into his suit jacket. "Let me go!"

Jackson didn't speak. The elevator doors opened, and he shoved her inside, hitting the button for the top floor.

The ride up was a terrifying blur. Christina backed into the corner of the elevator, clutching the ruined edges of her blouse together. Jackson stood in front of the doors, his back to her, adjusting his watch with jerky, agitated movements.

The doors slid open.

Before Christina could run, Jackson turned and scooped her up into his arms. She kicked her legs, letting out a scream of frustration.

He carried her through the foyer and slammed her against the wall next to the front door. The impact knocked the breath out of her.

He pinned both of her wrists above her head with one hand. His other hand went to the hem of her pencil skirt, bunching the fabric up roughly.

"Remember this feeling, Christina," Jackson whispered against her neck, his teeth scraping her skin. "As long as I don't let go, you have nowhere to run."

He didn't take her to the bed. He didn't bother with foreplay. He used his weight to press her flush against the wall, his knee parting her legs.

When he pushed inside her, it was entirely without gentleness. It was a raw, aggressive claim of ownership.

Christina let out a choked sob, turning her face away from him. The physical pain was sharp, but the humiliation was worse. She squeezed her eyes shut, letting the tears fall hot and fast down her cheeks.

She stopped fighting. Her arms went limp in his grip. She just stood there, taking the brutal rhythm of his body against hers, feeling her soul fracture into a million irreparable pieces.

Jackson felt her surrender. The fight drained out of her, leaving only a hollow shell.

His movements slowed. The violent rage in his blood began to cool, replaced by a sudden, creeping panic. He looked at her face. Her eyes were closed, her lips bitten raw, tears tracking through her makeup.

He let go of her wrists. He wrapped his arms tightly around her waist, burying his face in her shoulder, finishing with a ragged groan.

Christina's legs gave out. She slid down the wall, completely exhausted, her body trembling violently.

Jackson caught her before she hit the floor. He picked her up carefully this time. He carried her into the master bedroom and laid her gently on the center of the massive king-sized bed.

He pulled the heavy velvet duvet over her shivering body.

Christina didn't open her eyes. She just curled into a tight ball, pulling the blanket up to her chin, and let the darkness pull her under.

Jackson stood by the bed, staring down at her pale, exhausted face. He reached out, his thumb gently wiping a stray tear from her cheek. His hand was shaking.

He turned away, his chest tight with a terrifying realization he refused to name.