And then—with one final plunge and a broken groan of her name—he exploded inside her. His whole body trembled as he spilled into her for the first time since they got married, burying himself to the hilt, as if trying to tell her: this is mine, and so are you.
Drake and Chayara arrived at the dealership together.
Drake adjusted his shirt as they stepped out of the car, sunglasses on. They strolled toward the gleaming rows of shiny metal beasts, and Chayara’s eyes sparkled with curiosity.
"I have just the car that suits you," Drake said confidently, walking ahead.
Chayara slowed, arching one perfect brow in suspicion. "What do you mean suits me?"
He turned, trying not to smirk. "Grounded," he replied coolly.
"You think I am grounded?" she asked, tilting her head.
"Beginning to actually," Drake answered.
Chayara gave him a sideways glance, lips curving into a sly smirk. She didn’t comment on it.
"So what car is on your mind?" she asked, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm as they strolled toward the entrance.
"A Porsche," he announced dramatically, as though he were unveiling the next big blockbuster.
As soon as they stepped through the dealership’s glass doors, the scent of new leather filled the air. A sharply dressed sales agent approached them—his teeth already gleaming with commission-based enthusiasm.
Before the man could launch into the usual "what are you looking for today?" script, Chayara beat him to it.
"We want a Porsche," she said crisply.
"Good woman!" the agent declared with a grin, clapping his hands together. "Right this way!"
They followed him past rows of shiny cars so polished they reflected every nervous twitch in Drake’s expression.
While the agent began extolling the virtues of hybrid turbo engines and full-grain Napa leather seats, Drake’s phone buzzed. He casually pulled it from his pocket, expecting another boring promotional email.
Then he clicked it open.
His eyebrows furrowed, lips parted slightly. He stared at the screen as if the numbers were written in some ancient, confusing code.
Chayara noticed immediately. She cocked a brow. "What’s going on?"
"Uh... nothing," Drake said too quickly, still staring at the phone. "Just the house we want to buy. It’s ridiculously affordable. I thought it would cost more."
Chayara snorted. "Maybe Mrs Numero had something to do with it. She knocked down my price too."
"Friends and family discount?"
"I guess so," she shrugged.
"But I don’t intend to look a gift horse in the mouth," she added. "Grandpa left me a lot of money and put my finances in order, but still doesn’t mean I don’t love discounts. Especially now when I’m starting off."
Drake smiled, his hand brushing hers as they walked toward the next car. "You’re a strange kind of rich."
"I’m practical rich," she quipped, nose in the air. "That’s the beautiful kind of rich."
He grinned. "Remind me to tell you later how hot I find fiscal responsibility."
Chayara blushed a deep, very deep shade of red.
She didn’t know what to say to that.
"Speaking of, is Queen okay? She seemed out of it the other day at the soiree," Chayara said quickly. Anything to keep the conversation from veering into dangerous, emotionally vulnerable territory.
Drake leaned against the gleaming hood of a cherry red Porsche, hands tucked in his pockets, trying to play it cool. He squinted into the afternoon sun, though it didn’t stop the faint flush that crept up his neck.
"Yeah, sure. She was just under some work pressure," he replied, shrugging with exaggerated nonchalance. Chayara, of course, noticed.
"Ah... okay," she said, nodding.
"Actually, I told her how I feel about her."
Chay’s head jerked slightly, though she managed to keep her face composed—mostly. Internally, her heart did a spectacular belly flop. She forced a casual smile. "Really? What did she say?" she asked.
"Now that I think about it, she didn’t exactly say anything," Drake admitted, scratching the back of his neck, "but we were sort of in the middle of something."
He didn’t elaborate, but the look on his face—and the way he avoided her gaze—told her exactly what they’d been in the middle of.
Chay smiled thinly. "Ah."
Seeing Drake with Queen still hurt more than she cared to admit. It was the ghost of what might have been. But Chayara had already given herself the lecture: You don’t mourn a man you never truly had. So she nodded, swallowed the ache, and reminded herself that she was over him. Or getting there. Eventually.
Later that day, Drake drove behind her, watching from the comfort of his car as Chayara cruised down the road in her brand-new machine.
As they pulled up to the curb, Chayara stepped out of the vehicle. Her curls bounced, her heels clicked, and her new car practically purred in approval.
Just then, another car slid smoothly into the driveway.
Guy stepped out of his vehicle, sunglasses already lowered halfway down his nose, grinning. His eyes scanned her ride appreciatively before landing on her.
"That’s what I’m talking about," he said with a grin. "A powerful car for a powerful woman."
Chay giggled, her laughter light and musical. "Drake helped," she said with a soft smile, glancing back at her new car.
Guy’s jaw twitched slightly. "Ah... Drake. You asked him for help," he repeated. There was a tightness in his throat he wasn’t proud of—a bitter little knot that formed every time Drake’s name came up. He didn’t like the way it sounded. He sounded like a jealous boyfriend instead of the supportive business advisor he was supposed to be. Professional. Neutral. Focused on her career.
But there was nothing neutral about the way her eyes lit up when she talked about Drake. And worse—nothing neutral about how much he noticed it.
He was spending more time with her lately—more than his role strictly required. At first, it was just about revamping her brand, elevating her public image, managing PR. But somewhere between coffee-fueled brainstorms and late-night strategy calls, something shifted. Something... personal.