Samantha closed the door behind her with a soft thud, her mind still racing from the adrenaline of the night's race. She didn't expect to find Maxwell in the living room. The penthouse was eerily quiet, far too quiet for her liking. She had hoped he would be asleep by now, in his own wing of the massive space, letting her sneak in unnoticed.
It had been a few weeks since the engagement announcement, and despite the heavy public pressure, their living arrangement was… uncomfortable, to say the least. After the press event, both families insisted they remain in the same penthouse until things "settled down," but neither of them truly wanted to live in the same space.
Maxwell's wing was pristine, his environment designed for efficiency and business. Her side, however, felt more like a hotel room—a place she only stayed when she absolutely had to. It wasn't home, but it was safe from the prying eyes of the press.
It's all for show, she thought bitterly. We sleep in different rooms. We barely speak unless the media is watching.
But tonight, things felt different. The energy in the air crackled with tension, an undercurrent she couldn't ignore.
When she walked into the living room, she didn't expect to find him sitting on the couch, papers scattered around him like a map of his own private war. His eyes flickered up when he heard her footsteps, but they weren't warm—there was a coolness in them, the kind of cold that made the room feel even colder than it already was.
"You're back late," Maxwell said, his voice devoid of emotion.
Samantha didn't answer. She crossed the room slowly, her mind still stuck on the race, her body still burning with the heat of it. She didn't want to think about Maxwell, not right now. Not after everything that had happened between them in the last few hours.
But he wasn't letting her get away with it.
"I hope you're not getting too comfortable," he said, his eyes narrowing. "You wouldn't want the world to think we're some kind of happy couple, would you?"
His words hit her harder than they should have. She stopped in her tracks, turning to face him. "What does that mean?" she asked, her voice sharper than intended.
Maxwell stood up, tossing a photograph onto the coffee table between them. The image was grainy but clear enough to make her stomach tighten—it was a picture of her with Razor from five years ago. They were standing together in the shadows, his arm wrapped around her waist as they both looked toward the racetrack.
A chill ran down Samantha's spine. How did he get this? Her mind scrambled for an answer, but nothing came.
"You were just a street racer," he continued, his voice dangerously calm. "You didn't expect anyone to be watching, did you?"
Samantha felt her heart thudding in her chest. It was impossible—Maxwell had no reason to be in the underground world she used to live in. The only connection she had to it now was Razor, and even that was a secret she thought was buried. Yet here was Maxwell, holding evidence of her past like a weapon ready to strike.
"How did you…?" she started, but her voice faltered.
Maxwell didn't answer her question. Instead, he simply leaned forward, his eyes cold and calculating. "This is who you really are, Samantha. Under all the gloss and the suits, the money and the fame—you're just another street racer. And I won't let you forget that."
Samantha clenched her fists, her fingers digging into her palms. "You think you can control me? You think a picture from five years ago is going to change anything?" she spat, her anger flaring.
Maxwell stood up, his height towering over her. "It already has. You're living in my penthouse, under my roof, wearing my ring." He took a slow step toward her, the distance between them closing like a trap. "And now, you're going to play by my rules, Samantha."
Her pulse quickened. There was something dark behind his words, something she hadn't fully realized until now. She was no longer just playing a game with Maxwell; she was caught in a web of his making.
"I didn't agree to this engagement for you to treat me like a pawn in your game," she said, trying to push past the fear creeping up her throat. "You're not going to manipulate me."
Maxwell's lips curled into a thin smile, but there was no humor in it. "Then you better start figuring out what game you're playing, Samantha. Because I've already won."
Before she could retort, her phone buzzed on the table beside her. She picked it up, expecting a message from one of her street racing contacts, but the notification was different. A picture. Razor. The message was simple, chilling:
"It's not over."
Samantha's heart stopped as she stared at the message, the image of Razor's smirk burned into her mind. The last thing she wanted was to return to that life, but it was clear now—there was no escaping it. No matter what Maxwell thought, her past was never truly behind her.