Chapter 7 The wrong night to care
The drive back was dead silent.
Daphne gripped the steering wheel tighter than she needed to. The city lights streaked gold across the windshield, flickering over Michael’s face, calm, unreadable, and colder than the air sliding through the cracked window.
Her pulse was still wild from the race. But now, with him sitting there saying nothing, the silence felt heavier than the speed ever did.
He didn’t look at her once. Not when she nearly ran a red light. Not when her hair fell loose across her cheek.
Nothing. Just that still, controlled look he wore when he didn’t want to feel anything.
When they reached the mansion, he didn’t even wait for her to park. The car was still rolling when he opened the door, boots crunching against the gravel.
No goodbye. No glance. Nothing.
He walked up the steps and disappeared inside.
Daphne sat there, staring after him, the wheel still clutched tight in her hands. Her chest burned, that sharp, hot kind of hurt you can’t explain.
“Thanks for tonight,” she called, loud enough for him to hear.
He turned his head slightly but didn’t stop.
Still no reaction.
She rolled her eyes, jumped out, and brushed past him on purpose. Her shoulder grazed his arm, her perfume lingering for just a second.
He almost smiled, almost. But the expression died before it could form.
His phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: He’s drunk again. Breaking bottles. You'd better come before someone calls the cops.
Michael sighed, pressing his thumb against the bridge of his nose. “Not tonight,” he muttered.
Then another text:
They’ll throw him out if you don’t show up.
He looked toward the mansion, quiet, perfect, untouched by the world he came from. Then he grabbed his jacket and walked down the drive.
A moment later, his bike roared to life, cutting through the night.
~~~
Upstairs, Daphne sat on her bed, still in her racing clothes, staring at her reflection on the ceiling. She replayed the race, the rush, the crash of adrenaline, and the way he’d looked at her. Or rather, the way he hadn’t.
Then came the sound she knew too well, the low, dark rumble of his bike.
She went to the window, pulled the curtain aside. There he was, jacket zipped, moving with that steady, tired stride that said he had somewhere to be and didn’t want anyone to know where.
“What are you up to?” she whispered.
Curiosity won. It always did.
She grabbed her phone, slipped into her sneakers, and tiptoed down the back stairs. The guards were half-asleep by the gate. Easy.
Outside, she flagged a cab.
“Follow that bike,” she told the driver.
He blinked. “Miss, are you…”
“Just drive.”
~~~
Michael didn’t go far. Fifteen minutes out, the streets turned rougher: narrow roads, yellow lamps, stray dogs, and old bars.
The cab stopped outside one called Murphy’s. The music inside was too loud, voices sharp with alcohol.
Through the window, Daphne saw him, standing by the counter, one hand braced on the bar, the other gripping the shoulder of an older man who looked half-drunk and angry. The man shoved him, muttering something under his breath. Michael stayed still. His face said he’d been here before.
Then the man grabbed a bottle.
Before she could think twice, she was inside.
“Stop!” she yelled.
The noise died for half a second. Heads turned.
Michael froze when he saw her. “Daphne?”
The drunk man squinted at her, laughing. “Who’s the doll?”
“None of your business,” she said, stepping forward. “Put the bottle down before I make you.”
He snorted. “Look at this one, boy. Are you bringing girls from your fancy job now?”
Michael stepped between them. “Daphne, go back to the car.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“Daphne…”
“You shouldn’t have left like that.”
“Not now,” he snapped.
The drunk man tugged his sleeve again, slurring about “ungrateful sons” and “worthless jobs.” He swung, badly, but Daphne caught his wrist midair.
“Don’t,” she said flatly.
Something in her tone made him stop.
The bartender waved them off. “Take it outside. I’m not cleaning up family therapy tonight.”
Michael exhaled hard and grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the door. His grip was too tight. She didn’t fight it.
Outside, the night air hit them both.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he asked, voice low and sharp.
She yanked her hand free. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“I didn’t need your help.”
“He was about to hit you!”
“I can handle him.”
“Yeah, sure. Looked like it.”
He turned away, rubbing the back of his neck. “You don’t get it, Daphne. That’s my father. I’ve been handling him my whole life.”
She froze. “That was your…”
“Yeah.” His voice cracked just slightly. “And I don’t need you fixing it.”
“I wasn’t trying to fix anything,” she said softly. “I just didn’t want him to hurt you.”
He stared at the ground. “I’ve been hurt worse.”
Something in her chest tightened. “You really hate it when someone cares, don’t you?”
He didn’t answer. Just walked to his bike.
“Fine,” she muttered. “Go. I’ll get another cab.”
He started the engine, then looked back. She was still there, arms crossed, phone dead, empty street behind her. One broken streetlight flickered overhead.
He cursed under his breath, turned the bike around, and stopped in front of her.
“Get on,” he said.
She raised a brow. “Changed your mind?”
“You’ll freeze if you stay.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He didn’t give one.
She climbed on, arms wrapping around his waist. The warmth of him seeped into her palms. The night felt less cold.
Neither of them spoke the whole way back.
~~~
When they reached the mansion, Daphne jumped off first. “Michael…”
He didn’t stop. Just parked the bike and walked in.
She followed him down the hall. “Are you seriously going to ignore me after I just saved you from a beer bottle to the head?”
Nothing.
“Michael!”
He kept walking.
She glared. “Fine! Be miserable alone!”
The slam of her door echoed through the quiet house.
Down the hall, Michael stopped. His hand brushed the wall as he exhaled.
“You’re going to
drive me insane,” he muttered.
Upstairs, Daphne leaned against her door, heart pounding. “You’re already halfway there,” she whispered.
Neither of them slept that night.
