To save his life, I took the wheel for him. I won the race but crashed the car, waking up in a hospital bed. Grafton accused me of doing it for attention, then left to comfort Cherrelle over a sprained ankle.
He believed her lies when she said I pushed her, shoving me against a wall so hard my head wound split open again.
He stood by while she forced me to drink glass after glass of whiskey he was deathly allergic to, calling it a test of loyalty.
The final humiliation came at a charity auction. To prove his love for Cherrelle, he put me on the stage and sold me for the night to another man.
I had endured five years of hell to honor a dead man's last wish, and this was my reward.
After escaping the man who bought me, I went to the bridge where Justen died. I sent Grafton one last text: "I'm going to be with the man I love."
Then, with nothing left to live for, I jumped.
Chapter 1
In the world of high finance, everyone knew one thing for certain: Cayla Bass was Grafton Mcleod's shadow. For five years, she was more than his personal assistant; she was his fixer, his shield, his alibi.
She cleaned up his tabloid scandals, smoothed over his legal troubles, and once even took the blame for a car wreck that was his fault. She was a ghost in his life, always present, always silent, her devotion absolute.
Everyone assumed it was a story of unrequited love, the kind of tragic, one-sided affair that fueled office gossip for years. They believed she would be by his side forever, a permanent fixture in the storm that was Grafton's life. Cayla did nothing to correct this assumption. She simply existed for him.
Until today.
"I'm resigning."
The words, spoken calmly in Grafton's minimalist office, were a bomb detonating in the silence. Five years to the day she started.
Brooks Corbett, Grafton's best friend and the company's legal counsel, choked on his coffee. He stared at Cayla, his eyes wide with disbelief.
"You're what? Cayla, are you serious?"
Cayla nodded, her expression placid. She placed a simple, one-page letter on the polished desk. "My contract is fulfilled. All my work has been handed over. I've already cleared my desk."
She didn't wait for a response. She turned and walked out of the office, her footsteps even and unhurried. The entire floor seemed to hold its breath as she passed, a wave of shock rippling in her wake.
But Cayla didn't go home. She didn't pack a bag or book a flight. She took a taxi to the quietest, most well-tended cemetery in the city.
She stopped before a black marble headstone.
JUSTEN PALMER.
She traced the letters of his name, her fingers gentle. A photograph was etched into the stone, a young man with a smile that could light up a room. He had the same sharp jawline and intense eyes as Grafton, but where Grafton's gaze was wild and reckless, Justen's was filled with a deep, steady warmth.
Her composure finally broke. A single tear tracked down her cheek.
"Justen," she whispered, her voice thick with a sorrow that five years had not dulled.
"I did it. I kept my promise."
The memory was as sharp as the day it happened. Five years ago, the screech of tires, the crush of metal. Justen, shielding her with his body.
The world had been a mess of flashing lights and the smell of gasoline. He was pinned, his breathing shallow.
"Cayla," he had rasped, his hand finding hers. "Promise me."
"Anything," she sobbed.
"Grafton... he's a mess. He's my brother. Look after him. Just... give him five years. Five years to grow up."
She understood his real meaning. Justen wasn't just asking her to protect Grafton. He was giving her an out. He was preventing her from drowning in her grief, from following him into the darkness. He was giving her a five-year sentence so she could eventually be free.
So she had agreed. She became Grafton Mcleod's assistant, the woman who catered to his every whim, who absorbed every blow meant for him. She did it all for the man lying beneath the cold stone.
The five years were up. Her promise was fulfilled. Her own desire, suppressed for so long, had not changed.
"I'm coming, Justen," she murmured, a quiet finality in her tone. "I'm so tired. I just want to rest with you."
She was ready to let go.
Her phone buzzed, a harsh, unwelcome intrusion. It was Brooks.
"Cayla! Thank god you answered. It's Grafton." His voice was frantic. "Cherrelle is at it again."
Cayla's entire body went rigid.
Cherrelle Hughes. Grafton's girlfriend. A woman who treated love like a series of dangerous, high-stakes games.
"She dared him to race the Vipers gang," Brooks said, his words tumbling out. "Winner takes the coastline road rights for a year. Grafton is actually going to do it. He's insane."
Cayla closed her eyes. The Vipers weren't just street racers; they were criminals, known for their violence. The race wasn't about speed; it was about survival.
She found herself running before she even made a conscious decision, hailing a taxi with a shaking hand.
The race was being held on a treacherous cliffside road, slick with sea spray. A crowd had gathered, their faces lit by the glare of headlights. At the starting line sat Grafton's custom sports car, and next to it, the Vipers' menacing, souped-up muscle car.
Grafton was leaning against his car, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Cherrelle was clinging to his arm, her expression a mixture of excitement and feigned concern.
Brooks rushed over to Cayla. "You came." He looked relieved.
"Why is he doing this?" Cayla asked, her voice tight.
"For her," Brooks spat, gesturing with his head toward Cherrelle. "She said if he wins, she'll know he truly loves her. That woman is poison."
Jeramy Santos, another of Grafton's friends, clapped Grafton on the shoulder. "Don't listen to Brooks, man. Cherrelle's just testing you. Show her what you're made of."
But Brooks wouldn't let it go. He turned to Grafton. "Are you crazy? Cayla has spent five years keeping you out of jail, and you're going to throw it all away for a thrill?"
Grafton's eyes flickered toward Cayla. For a second, something unreadable crossed his face. Then it was gone, replaced by his usual arrogance.
"What's it to you, Bass?" he drawled, his words sharp and cold. "Did you come to watch me crash and burn? Or are you hoping to pick up the pieces again?"
The words hit Cayla hard. A sharp pain bloomed in her chest, making it difficult to breathe. But she ignored it. She had ignored it for five years.
She walked forward, right up to him. She took the car keys from his hand.
"What the hell are you doing?" Grafton demanded.
"I'll race for you," Cayla said, her voice steady. "I'm a better driver. You'll just get yourself killed."
Brooks nodded in agreement. "She's right, Grafton. Let her do it. All Cherrelle wants is the win, she doesn't care who's behind the wheel."
Cayla didn't wait for his permission. She slid into the driver's seat, the leather cool against her skin. She started the engine, its roar a familiar comfort.
Grafton was stunned into silence, watching her. He tried to protest, to pull her out, but she had already locked the doors.
"Cayla, get out of the car!" he yelled, banging on the window. "That's an order!"
She just looked at him, her eyes calm and empty. She gave a slight shake of her head.
The starting flag dropped.
The world dissolved into a blur of speed and noise. The engine screamed as she pushed it to its limit, the tires fighting for grip on the winding road.
Grafton stood frozen, his eyes glued to the taillights of his car as it disappeared around the first bend. He felt a strange, unfamiliar tightness in his chest. He saw her face in his mind, so calm, so willing to throw herself into danger for him. Again.
The race was brutal. The Vipers' car repeatedly slammed into hers, trying to force her off the road and over the cliff. The crowd gasped with every near-miss, every screech of metal on metal.
But Cayla was unflinching. She drove with a cold, precise fury.
The final stretch. The cars were neck and neck. With a final, violent shunt, the Vipers' car sent her into a spin. For a heart-stopping moment, it looked like she would go over the edge.
Then, a deafening crash.
Her car slammed sideways into the rock face just past the finish line. Victorious.
Silence fell over the crowd.
The driver's side door was crumpled. Cayla emerged, limping. Blood trickled from a cut on her forehead, matting her hair.
She walked straight to Grafton, her body swaying. She pressed the victory token-a gaudy viper-shaped pin-into his hand.
"You won," she said, her voice barely a whisper.
Then her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed.
Grafton reacted without thinking. He lunged forward, catching her just before she hit the ground.
She felt terrifyingly light in his arms, as fragile as a bird. A feeling he couldn't name, something sharp and painful, surged through him.
"Cayla?" he called out, his voice laced with a panic he didn't recognize. "Cayla!"
As she lost consciousness, she thought she felt Justen's hand in hers. A faint sense of peace settled over her before everything went black.