Chapter 7 Bewitching Eyes
She smiled softly, her lips curving into a gentle arc.
“What's so funny?” Jack asked, half-dazed, captivated by her relaxed elegance—a stark contrast to the Emily he thought he knew.
“Because I realize even if I told you the truth, you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Try me.” Jack’s dark, piercing eyes narrowed, locked onto hers, daring her to speak.
“Fine,.” She took a step back, her bare skin brushing the cool tile wall, trying to steady her breath. “I don’t remember anything about you at all. I found a key under the cactus outside and assumed I lived here. So I came back.”
“Amnesia? Spare me the cheesy TV drama clichés. Only a fool would buy that story.”
Alison paused, feigning confusion, “Wait… what’s your name again?”
“Jack Winston.”
His name sent a jolt through her.
Of course—Jack Winston, the real estate tycoon whose architectural designs blended modern sleekness with vintage elegance. She’d first heard of him at a charity auction, where he’d paid a fortune for an orphan’s simple painting. She’d never forgotten that act of quiet generosity.
She held out her hand. “Hi I am Emily. Looks like we’re meeting again for the first time.”
Jack eyed her outstretched hand warily, motionless. “You really don’t remember anything?”
“Yes.” She bit her lip, forcing confidence into her voice.
“I still don’t buy it. Not after what you did to me.”
“Shh…” She raised a finger to his lips, a bold and oddly intimate move. “You can hate me if you want. But right now, I just want a fresh start.”
Whether you believed me or not, she thought, I have to survive these next three months first.
Gone was the terrified Alison who’d panicked at the sight of those emails. Now, her focus was survival. Once the blackmailer confirmed the photos were deleted, she’d still have to track down whoever took them and erase every last trace.
Why Jack? She didn’t know. But she was certain of one thing: tomorrow, a new message would await her, instructing her next move.
She walked past him barefoot and the cold tile grounding her as she entered the bedroom.
Sliding under the sheets, she lay still. Moments later, she felt Jack lie beside her, one arm slipping around her waist. His steady breaths warmed the back of her neck as she inhaled his scent, eyes drifting shut.
If this was truly Jack Winston, she had no regrets about losing her virginity.
She exhaled slowly, recalling his earlier demand for a massage. She didn’t know how to give a massage.
Maybe just rub his shoulders would be good enough? She thought,
Claiming amnesia was a risky move—he clearly doubted her—but it was the first thing she could think of on the spot. She knew nothing about the real Emily or her history with Jack.
Whoever dragged her into this mess hadn’t revealed their endgame. And now she lay in a stranger’s bed, every muscle tense, afraid to wake him.
Listening to his even breathing while she stayed wide awake, she sighed resignedly.
Alison didn’t sleep until nearly dawn. Thankfully, a dreamless sleep.
Sleep swallowed the night. When she woke up, sunlight poured through the curtains, pooling on the bed and warming her skin.
She turned instinctively. Jack had already left.
Relief flooded her. A glance at the clock said it was past noon.
Stiff and sore, she rose cautiously, cheeks flushing at the memories of the night before. Wrapping the duvet around herself, she paced the empty room, finally relaxing once she was sure he was truly gone.
After washing up, she gingerly approached the laptop—that constant, looming threat.
She needed answers. Why had someone forced her into Jack’s life?
Trembling, she opened the email. No photos. Just words.
It had landed in her inbox at 8 a.m. sharp—right on schedule.
“Good morning, Miss Fairchild. Has he agreed to let you move in -- for the next three months?”