Under The Billionaire's Control

02 | Nightmare

S A R A H

I huddle in a corner, watching helplessly as my father yells at my mother, his words laced with venom and anger.

The sounds, the harshness in his voice, the fear... all of it wraps around me, tightening like a knot in my chest.

I’m back in that small, cramped house. My father's voice booms through the walls, each word sharper, each insult more brutal.

My mother cowers, her hands trembling as she holds them up to shield herself. I want to step between them, to tell him to stop, but I’m frozen.

Helpless.

His hand grabs my mother's long hair. The walls close in, as if every breath I take adds weight to the heaviness in the air.

I jolt awake, my heartbeat pounding wildly in the silence, my fingers gripping the sheets.

My throat feels dry, and I need something—anything—to ground me back in the present. It takes a few seconds for me to remember where I am.

The guesthouse.

Noah.

I rub my eyes, feeling the lingering ache in my chest, the tightness from my dream that won’t quite fade.

I swing my legs over the bed, needing something to calm me, and slip down the hallway toward the kitchen. Maybe a glass of water will help, or at least give me a moment to pull myself together.

But as I approach, I hear a sound that stops me in my tracks. It’s quiet, almost unnoticeable. The soft, uneven hitching of breath, the kind you only make when trying to hide tears.

I slow, peering around the corner, and there he is. Noah. Sitting on the cold tile floor, his head resting against the doorframe.

He’s staring into the darkness. I hadn’t expected to see him like this, stripped of his charm, his arrogance, or his usual indifference.

His face is shadowed, but even in the dim light, I can see the streaks of tears catching in the soft glow of the room. It’s raw, vulnerable in a way that doesn’t fit the man I thought I knew.

I can see the faint glisten of tears on his face, streaking silently down his cheeks. I press myself against the wall, hidden from his view, watching as he sits there.

I hold my breath, unwilling to make a sound, not wanting him to know I’m there. I almost feel like I’ve intruded on something private that I have no right to witness. I want to turn and walk away, but my feet are rooted to the floor.

In that moment, he isn’t Noah Jackson, the billionaire fuck boy. He’s just a man carrying more than he can bear.

This is the man I’ve told myself to keep my guard up around. This is the man from that video. The one who hit his ex. The one who seemed too much like my father, all rage and recklessness.

But here he is, looking more human than I ever expected, raw and broken in a way I can’t ignore.

My father had moments like this too. Moments where he seemed sorry, seemed vulnerable. Moments where he made us think he’d change, only for the rage to come back worse than before.

I clench my fists, feeling my nails dig into my palms, grounding me back to reality. I won’t let myself be fooled.

“He’s like your father,” I whisper to myself, as if the words will keep me anchored. “Don’t let your guard down.”

His quiet sadness lingers in my mind, but I push it down.

As I turn from the kitchen, still shaken from that dream, I miss a step in the dim hallway. My foot slips, and before I can catch myself, I stumble, landing hard on my knee. Pain shoots up my leg, and I bite back a gasp, my hands gripping the floor to steady myself.

Footsteps sound, quick and close. I look up to find Noah standing there, his face shadowed but unmistakably filled with concern. He extends a hand toward me.

“Sarah, are you alright?”

I feel a twist of irritation in my chest. I don’t want his help. I pull back slightly, trying to get up without his assistance. But my knee throbs sharply, forcing me to pause.

I try to stand again, wincing from the pain in my knee. He doesn’t move, still holding his hand out.

Despite everything, there’s a softness in his eyes, a glimpse of something that doesn’t quite fit with the image I have of him.

“Don’t bother pretending,” I bite out, my voice harsher than intended. “You don’t have to act like the good guy for me. I know what you are.”

His face shifts, an expression I can’t quite place.

Hurt? Guilt?

“You’re right,” he says, voice sharp and bitter. “I am a horrible person.”

He extends a hand again, but before I can even decide if I want his help, his voice cuts through the silence.

“Can you even walk properly, or is stumbling around at night part of the job?” His tone is cold, almost mocking.

I bristle, trying to push myself up without him, but the pain is sharper than I expect. I refuse to look at him.

“I don’t need your help,” I mutter.

He lets out a bitter chuckle, crossing his arms. “Suit yourself. But maybe next time, try keeping your balance instead of skulking around at night.”

He watches me struggle, his gaze like a weight pressing down on me. When I don’t immediately get up, he sighs dramatically, rolling his eyes.

“Fine,” he mutters, grabbing my arm with a grip that’s firm, almost too firm. He pulls me to my feet without waiting for my answer, and I can’t help but glare at him, anger sparking within me.

His grip is just strong enough to support me, but it’s harsh, as though he’s masking any kindness with a roughness that leaves me tense.

“Don’t act like you’re helping out of kindness,” I snap, yanking my arm from his grasp. “I know exactly what kind of person you are.”

His jaw clenches, and he leans in close, his voice lowering to a sharp whisper. “Trust me, I’m not doing this out of kindness. I don’t care what you think of me, so save your little lectures.”

His eyes narrow as he takes a step back. “Maybe if you weren’t so quick to assume the worst, you’d be a little less miserable.”

His words hit harder than I expect, and I feel my face flush with anger. “Why should I assume anything else?” I fire back. “You’ve shown me exactly who you are.”

“Good,” he says coldly, his mouth twisting into a hard line. “Then don’t expect anything else.”

He lets go of my arm abruptly, his expression unreadable as he turns and walks away without a backward glance.

I want him to admit it, to own up to what I’ve seen, but hearing it in his voice leaves an uneasy feeling in my chest.

He heads to his room, slamming the door behind him. The sound echoes through the quiet house, leaving me alone in the silence with a strange tension in my chest.

I just stand there, a surge of anger and something else tangled in my chest.

Who is Noah Jackson?

°°°
What do you guys think about our girl Sarah?