Chapter 4: Hit It and Quit It

Luna's POV

"Luna, you okay? Mr. Ashford looked pissed." Tina hovered by my desk, her brow furrowed with genuine concern.

I flashed my most convincing smile, fingers flying across my keyboard. "Of course I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, you did just get summoned to the CEO's office after that whole Audrey Parker clusterfuck," she whispered, leaning in. "Everyone thought you were getting fired."

"Takes more than that to get rid of me." I winked, keeping up my cool facade.

Tina fidgeted with her pen. "You know what's weird? Audrey's little groupies were bragging. Said she's practically engaged to our CEO and might be the next Mrs. Ashford."

I rolled my eyes. "If she's the future Mrs. Ashford, maybe she should ask him to give her an audition."

The words slipped out before I could stop them. Shit. That didn't sound professional at all.

Tina's eyes widened like saucers before she burst into muffled laughter. "Luna Gray with the kill shot! But seriously, I'm glad you're okay."

I glanced around the office, catching the sideways looks and hushed conversations. Everyone was clearly shocked I wasn't packing my desk into a cardboard box. Their disappointment was almost palpable.

Rising from my chair, I addressed the room with cool detachment. "If you all have this much time for gossip, I'm assuming the script revisions for next week are already done?"

The room fell silent as people suddenly became fascinated with their computer screens.

"That's what I thought," I said, gathering my things. I needed to find Chase. He hadn't answered any of my calls since last night's accident.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of meetings and rewrites. By evening, I'd called Chase seventeen times with no response.

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Vale Central was the same gaudy hellhole I remembered—a playground for spoiled rich kids and ladder-climbers, reeking of desperation and daddy's money. The 28th floor? "Gentlemen's entertainment"—code for scantily clad women and booze that cost more than my rent.

Chase, you predictable pig.

I navigated through the crowd, zeroing in on the VIP section where he'd inevitably be holding court. The pounding music dulled to a low throb as I approached the private rooms, like the club's diseased heartbeat.

One door stood slightly ajar, and voices drifted out.

"—been engaged for what, six months, and you still haven't hit that?" someone slurred, clearly several drinks deep.

Chase's laugh was ugly and cruel. "She's got a pretty face, but she's colder than a morgue slab. Once I finally get her legs spread, I'll find some excuse to dump her ass."

My blood turned to ice, then immediately boiled over. Without thinking, I shoved the door open wide.

The room fell dead silent. Chase sprawled across a plush leather couch, a scantily clad dancer draped over each arm. His bloodshot eyes widened comically when he spotted me.

"L-Luna! Baby, what are you—"

"Last night," I cut him off, striding straight toward him with purpose, "after I drove your little side piece home, I crashed into someone's car. You need to pay for the damages."

His face flushed crimson with anger and embarrassment. "Always about money with you, isn't it, you frigid bitch?"

His buddies snickered and whistled, clearly enjoying the show. Chase's expression turned vicious.

"Tell you what, sweetheart," he slurred, reaching for my waist with grabby hands. "Sleep with me tonight, and I'll take care of your little problem. Hell, I might even make it worth your while."

The room erupted in catcalls and crude encouragement.

I leaned down until my face was inches from his. "In your wildest dreams," I whispered, then straightened up.

Rage twisted his features as he lunged for my wrist. "You ungrateful little—"

Pure instinct kicked in. My knee connected solidly with his groin, and he doubled over with a strangled howl that cut through the music.

"Looks like there's no tool for the job anyway," I spat, spinning toward the exit.

"Get that bitch!" Chase wheezed to his friends, clutching himself in agony.

Shit. I broke into a run.

Heavy footsteps thundered behind me as I raced through the club, dodging confused patrons. I burst through the main entrance onto the street, scanning desperately for a taxi.

"There she is!" One of Chase's friends shouted, closing in.

Just as panic gripped me, a sleek black Maserati screeched to a halt at the curb. The passenger window rolled down, revealing Gabriel's face, calm as ever despite the chaos.

"Get in," he commanded, eyes flicking to the approaching men.

I hesitated. Gabriel was complicated, dangerous territory—but Chase's goons were gaining ground.

Better the devil you know...

I yanked the door open and slid in. The car shot forward before I'd even closed the door properly.

Gabriel drove with one hand on the wheel, the other casually draped over the window edge. Neither of us spoke as he navigated through Vale's evening traffic, the only sound the purr of the engine and my gradually slowing heartbeat.

The silence broke when his phone rang, the call automatically connecting to the car's speakers.

"Finally back from exile, huh?" A male voice boomed through the speakers. "I knew it. The minute your ex gets engaged to another man, you couldn't stay away. But dude, she's engaged to another man. Isn't it too late?"

Gabriel cursed. "Could you fucking not, right now?"

"What's the rush? Remember what you said? 'I break up, I stay broken up. I'm not fucking begging for reconciliation!'"

Gabriel jabbed the disconnect button, his jaw tight. "Oliver's drunk. Ignore him."

"Okay," I replied flatly, staring out the window.

"That wasn't—"

"Mm-hmm."

"He doesn't know—"

"Right."

Gabriel fell silent, apparently recognizing the futility of explanation.

Before I knew it, we were pulling up outside The Mayfair—my apartment building.

"How do you know where I live?" I asked, suspicion creeping in.

He shrugged.

As I reached for the door handle, his warm fingers wrapped around my wrist. I looked up, carefully prying his long fingers away one by one.

"Was Mr. Ashford hoping to come upstairs?" I asked with mock sweetness.

"I wouldn't mind," he answered with infuriating confidence.

"Not happening."

His thumb traced the inside of my wrist. "My jacket is still at your place."

"I threw it out."

"Fine." He nodded with surprising acceptance. "That custom suit jacket was worth about $800,000. I'll add it to your tab."

I slammed the car door open, fuming. "You'll get your precious jacket tomorrow!"