"Trusting Atlas felt dangerous... but for the first time since Dad died, I wanted to believe I wasn't fighting alone." – Jane West

Chapter 33: Trusting Atlas

Jane

The kiss turned reckless so fast that it stole every coherent thought from my brain.

One second Atlas Petrakis was standing in my living room with that infuriatingly calm expression, wine-dark eyes watching my mouth like he already knew exactly how I tasted. The next, his hand slid into my hair and his lips crashed into mine hard enough to make me stumble backward against the cabinet.

God.

The man kissed like a disaster.

Hot, greedy, consuming. Like he had spent weeks restraining himself and finally snapped.

I barely managed to breathe between kisses. My fingers clutched the front of his white shirt while he pressed closer, his body trapping mine completely. Heat crawled under my skin so fast it almost hurt. His mouth moved against mine with dangerous confidence, teasing and taking at the same time, and every soft sound escaping me only seemed to make him worse.

Or better.

Definitely worse.

His thumb brushed the side of my neck while his mouth dragged along my jaw, and I actually whimpered. Whimpered. Like some helpless woman in a romance movie.

"This okay?" he murmured against my skin, voice rougher now.

I nodded too quickly. "Mm-hm."

"Use your words, Jane."

"Yes."

His grin brushed my throat. "Good girl."

My entire body betrayed me at once.

Then suddenly—

Grrrkkkk.

My stomach growled so loudly the room practically echoed with it.

Atlas froze.

Actually froze.

His lips stopped moving against my neck and he slowly pulled back, blinking at me with stunned amusement while I stared at him in absolute horror.

"Oh my God," I whispered.

For two seconds we just looked at each other.

Then Atlas burst out laughing.

Not a polite laugh. A full laugh. Head tipped back slightly, shoulders shaking, stupidly beautiful smile on display.

I wanted the floor to swallow me whole.

"I hate you," I muttered.

"You're hungry?" he asked, still grinning.

"Um... no..."

My traitorous stomach growled again.

Atlas raised one brow.

I closed my eyes. "I don't know. Maybe. Aren't you?"

The second the words left my mouth, realization punched me in the face.

Oh.

Oh no.

Because technically yes, he definitely looked hungry.

Just not for food.

Heat climbed all the way to my ears. "I mean..."

"Yeah," he said smoothly, eyes darkening with amusement, "I'm starving. But not for food."

I stared at him.

Completely speechless.

Which only made his grin wider.

"Hey," he said softly, brushing his thumb over my flushed cheek, "relax. I'm not going to eat you."

My brain immediately answered. Yes, you will. You absolutely will. You'll probably do it slowly while I scream your name loud enough for my neighbors to complain.

I nearly choked on my own thoughts.

"Um... of course you won't," I managed weakly.

Atlas looked way too pleased with himself.

"I'll tell Jett to get us something," he said. "What do you like to eat?"

Honestly, at that point he could've handed me cardboard and I would've eaten it happily just to stop embarrassing myself.

"Anything," I said. "As long as there's vegetable salad."

"Healthy," he mused. "Should've guessed."

"I happen to enjoy living."

He smirked. "Maybe steak and salad? Sounds good to you?"

"Very."

He pulled his phone out while I tried not to stare at his mouth again.

Bad idea.

Very bad idea.

"Jett," Atlas said once the call connected. "Need dinner delivered to Jane's apartment." He paused. "Steak. Salad. Mashed potatoes. And wine." His eyes flicked to me lazily. "A good one."

I rolled my eyes. "Because billionaires physically can't drink normal wine?"

"We can," he said. "We just don't recover emotionally."

I snorted before I could stop myself.

"There she is," he murmured quietly.

"What?"

"That smile"

The way he said it made my chest tighten unexpectedly.

I cleared my throat quickly. "I'm going to shower."

His gaze slowly traveled over me, messy hair and flushed skin and all. "Probably a good idea."

"You're disgusting."

"You like it."

Unfortunately, I did.

That was becoming a serious problem.

I escaped to my bedroom before he could see the effect he had on me.

The shower helped. A little. Hot water pounded against my skin while I leaned against the tile wall trying to regain basic human functionality. But every time I closed my eyes, I felt his mouth again. His hands. The low sound he made in his throat when I kissed him back harder.

No man should sound like that. It should honestly be illegal.

I changed into gray sweatpants and an oversized cream sweater afterward, deciding comfort was safer than anything remotely attractive. My hair was still damp when I walked back into the living room.

Then I stopped.

Atlas was setting the table.

For a moment the sight genuinely caught me off guard.

The billionaire playboy CEO stood beside my small dining table rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt while arranging plates like he belonged there. The expensive watch on his wrist glinted under the warm light. He looked absurdly out of place in my apartment and yet somehow perfectly comfortable inside it.

He glanced up and smiled.

"If you don't mind," he said, "I made my way around and set up the table already."

Something soft moved inside my chest.

"Of course not," I replied quietly. "Feel free."

The smell hit me next.

Steak. Butter. Garlic. Fresh bread.

My stomach nearly cried in relief.

Atlas noticed immediately. "There's the hunger."

"I'm pretending none of this happened."

"Too late. I'm keeping the memory forever."

"Delete it."

"Never."

I shook my head while sitting down across from him.

The food looked ridiculously good. Steak sliced perfectly beside mashed potatoes and fresh salad, plus a bottle of red wine that probably cost more than my monthly groceries.

"You know," I said while staring at the bottle, "normal people buy wine from supermarkets."

Atlas poured wine calmly into my glass. "Normal people also don't voluntarily train me to become CEO. Clearly you make questionable decisions."

I laughed despite myself.

"Come on," he said. "Let's dig in. I'm sure you're starving."

If only he knew how accurate that word felt.

Dinner should've eased the tension.

But it absolutely did not.

Every time our eyes met across the table, something electric passed between us. Awareness sat heavily in the room. I knew it. He knew it.

After dinner, we would continue what we started.

The thought alone made my pulse flutter stupidly. I stabbed a tomato in my salad to avoid looking at him.

"So," Atlas said casually, cutting into his steak, "tell me about your brother."

Relief loosened my shoulders slightly.

"Timothy?"

"The Formula 1 fanatic."

I smiled instantly. "That's him."

"How old?"

"Twenty-two. Graduating this year. IT course."

"Smart kid."

"He got that from my dad," I said. "I got the sarcasm."

Atlas smirked. "No, sweetheart. The sarcasm is definitely a talent."

I ignored the warmth spreading across my cheeks.

"He actually got accepted as a trainee at Stavrakos Robotics," I continued.

Atlas nodded approvingly. "That's huge for a fresh graduate. Good company. Good future."

"He nearly fainted when he got the acceptance email."

"I nearly fainted the first time I drove an F1 car."

I blinked. "Seriously?"

"No," he deadpanned. "I threw up."

I laughed so hard wine almost came out of my nose.

"You're lying."

"Unfortunately not. I was sixteen and thought I looked incredibly cool." He sighed dramatically. "Then I removed the helmet and immediately humiliated myself in front of everyone."

"That actually makes me feel better."

"About?"

"The fact that you're annoyingly good at everything."

He leaned back lazily. "I'm not good at everything."

"No?"

"You've met me in board meetings."

"That's true. You're terrible there."

"Cruel."

"You deserve it."

His eyes gleamed. "Keep talking to me like that and we're not finishing dinner."

Heat crawled up my neck again.

I took a large sip of wine.

"Timothy still brags about the cap you signed for him," I said quickly. "He literally told all his friends."

Atlas laughed softly. "Cute."

"He loves Formula 1."

"I can't wait to meet him."

I narrowed my eyes. "Why does that sound dangerous?"

"Because I'm already planning to spoil him."

"Atlas."

"I'll show him the wardrobe with my racing suits and jackets."

My jaw dropped. "Absolutely not."

"He can pick whatever he wants."

"Atlas."

"What? The kid has taste."

"You cannot spoil my brother."

His grin turned wicked. "Too late."

I pointed my fork at him. "I'm serious."

"So am I."

The scary part? I believed him.

The conversation flowed easier after that.

Lighter.

Comfortable.

We talked about random things between bites of food and glasses of wine. Places we traveled. Hobbies. Pet peeves.

Atlas hated slow walkers.

I hated loud chewing.

Atlas collected vintage watches.

I collected books I never had time to read.

He told me about Monaco and Tokyo and late-night drives in Italy. I told him about rainy afternoons with Timothy and cheap movie marathons and how I secretly loved old astronomy documentaries.

"You're secretly a nerd," Atlas concluded.

"You literally race million-dollar cars for fun."

"That's not nerd behavior."

"That's rich people behavior."

"Fair point."

What surprised me most was how carefully he avoided certain topics.

My father.

Jennifer.

Noah.

Anything heavy. Anything painful. He never pushed. And somehow that made me trust him more.

Which honestly terrified me.

After dinner Atlas stood up first and started gathering plates.

"Oh no," I said immediately. "Absolutely not."

"What?"

"You already set the table."

"And?"

"Now it's my turn."

He crossed his arms. "Jane."

"You're not washing dishes in my apartment."

"I'm very capable."

"I don't care. Sit down."

He stared at me for a second before laughing quietly. "Bossy."

"You love it."

His eyes lingered on me. "Yeah," he said softly. "I do."

The air shifted again. Dangerously.

I grabbed the plates too fast just to escape it.

"Take the wine glasses to the balcony," I ordered over my shoulder. "Wait for me there."

"Yes, ma'am."

I could practically hear the grin in his voice.

It took me longer than necessary to wash dishes because my mind wouldn't shut up.

Atlas looked at me differently tonight. Not just attraction. Something deeper. And worse, I looked at him differently too.

When I finally stepped onto the balcony, cool night air brushed against my skin instantly.

Atlas stood near the railing with his back to me, one hand inside his pocket while the city lights reflected against his broad shoulders. He turned when he heard me approaching.

Then he smiled.

God, that smile was unfair.

"You have a beautiful view here," he said.

I leaned beside him. "Not as stunning as your penthouse."

He glanced at me slowly, eyes warm with something that made my stomach flip.

"My view from here is beyond amazing," he murmured. "Nothing can surpass it. I wouldn't trade it for the most beautiful view in the world."

It took me exactly three seconds to realize he wasn't talking about the skyline.

Damn him.

Blushing around Atlas had become a full-time occupation.

"You flirt too much," I muttered.

"You blush too easily."

We settled onto the outdoor couch afterward, wine glasses in hand.

The city stretched beneath us glowing gold and silver under the dark sky. Somewhere far below, traffic hummed softly, but up here everything felt strangely quiet.

Peaceful.

We sat side by side without speaking for a while.

Not awkward.

Just... feeling each other there.

I became hyperaware of little things. The warmth of his shoulder near mine. The way his thumb lazily traced the stem of his wine glass. The faint scent of his cologne mixing with cold night air.

Then my eyes lifted toward the stars.

And suddenly I said quietly, "When I was young... my dad and I used to stare at the stars. The moon. Planets."

Atlas turned toward me immediately but stayed silent.

"We had this thing," I continued softly. "Every summer we'd sit outside with snacks and blankets and pretend we were astronauts." I laughed faintly at the memory. "Dad used to say we'd travel to the moon together someday."

I swallowed hard.

"But that's an impossible dream."

Atlas studied me carefully. "Nothing's impossible if you want it badly enough."

"Yeah." I stared at the sky. "But Dad's dead. So we're not fulfilling that dream anymore."

Silence stretched between us.

Not uncomfortable.

Gentle.

Waiting.

"You know," I said quietly, "he died in jail."

Atlas didn't interrupt.

"He finally had a chance. He had proof. A way out." My fingers tightened around my wine glass. "Then suddenly he died in his sleep. Heart attack, they said."

His jaw tightened slightly. "That sucks."

"Yeah," I whispered. "It really sucks."

The pain still lived inside me. Raw. Rotting.

"My dad didn't even have heart disease. He didn't smoke. Didn't drink. He was a vegetarian."

Atlas glanced at me. "Physically fit?"

"Very. He jogged every morning." A sad smile touched my mouth. "I used to go with him."

"You must've been close."

My throat burned.

"Very close." I looked down at my hands. "I loved him so much."

"He sounds like a good man."

"He was." Bitterness slipped into my voice. "But Mom still left him."

Atlas stayed quiet.

"She believed Morris," I continued. "You met him at the party."

"Oh yeah." His expression darkened instantly. "I don't like that guy."

"Neither do I." I exhaled slowly. "He convinced Mom that Dad was cheating on her. Fake proof. Photos. Texts. Letters."

"What an asshole."

"She was emotional. Sensitive. Easy to manipulate." My lips twisted painfully. "And Morris knew exactly what he was doing."

"Why?"

I hesitated.

Because saying Noah's name out loud still tasted poisonous.

"Because of Noah."

Atlas's expression changed immediately.

Sharp.

Cold.

"What about Noah?"

"Morris owed him money. Huge debt. Gambling." I stared into my wine glass. "Noah threatened him constantly. Jail. Ruining him."

Understanding slowly settled across Atlas's face.

"Oh fuck."

I nodded once. "Morris knew Noah was obsessed with my mother. So he destroyed my family to save himself."

The words still hurt every time I said them.

"He made Mom leave Dad. Then her family pushed her back toward Noah while Dad was falling apart." My voice shook slightly. "Then Morris framed Dad for murder."

Atlas cursed under his breath.

"Mom divorced him. Married Noah later." I laughed bitterly. "Everything Morris planned worked perfectly."

"He's a son of a bitch."

"A monster," I hissed. "And I've spent years waiting for the chance to destroy him for what he did to my father."

Atlas looked at me carefully.

Not judging.

Not pitying.

Just seeing me.

"That's why you were digging through Noah's office," he said quietly.

"Yeah." I nodded. "I need proof. Financial documents. Statements. Anything connecting Morris to Noah." My chest tightened. "I need to prove my dad was innocent."

"And the people involved?"

"We're still investigating." I told him everything then.

Brian.

Carlos Santiago.

Grandma Ester.

Mr. Clifton.

The missing documents.

The dead ends.

Atlas listened without interrupting once.

The entire time his attention stayed fully on me.

"We're gathering evidence," I finished quietly. "But it's hard."

"Jane."

I looked at him. His expression had changed completely. No teasing. No arrogance. Just something steady and serious.

"Now I understand you," he said softly. "Fully."

Emotion climbed unexpectedly into my throat.

"Your father deserves justice," Atlas continued. "And everyone who helped destroy him deserves to suffer for it."

Something inside me cracked slightly. Because nobody had ever said it like that before. Most people told me to move on. To heal. To let it go. But Atlas looked at my rage and understood it.

"I support you," he said quietly. "I'm with you in this fight."

The sincerity in his voice nearly undid me.

"Thanks," I whispered.

For a while neither of us spoke.

The city lights blurred faintly as emotion pressed behind my eyes.

Then Atlas moved closer slowly. Not enough to overwhelm me. Just enough that his shoulder brushed mine. And somehow that tiny touch felt more intimate than all the kissing earlier.

Almost midnight crept up on us quietly.

Atlas glanced at his watch eventually before exhaling softly.

"I should go."

The words hit me harder than expected.

"You need rest," he added.

I nodded even though disappointment curled heavily in my stomach.

We stood together and walked toward the door slowly. Too slowly. Like both of us were dragging it out.

Atlas stopped near the door while I leaned against the wall pretending my heart wasn't beating too fast.

Tonight changed something between us.

I felt it.

He felt it too.

His eyes searched mine for a long moment before he spoke carefully.

"If I stay," he said quietly, "you know what happens."

Every nerve ending in my body lit up instantly.

I did know.

God help me, I wanted it. Wanted him. And the terrifying part? It wasn't just physical anymore.

"I know," I whispered.

Atlas held my gaze, giving me a choice.

That alone nearly destroyed me. Because men like Atlas Petrakis usually took. Controlled. Owned the room.

But right then he waited for me.

And maybe that was exactly why I crossed the distance between us first.

I grabbed his shirt and kissed him. Hard. Desperate.

His reaction was immediate. One arm wrapped around my waist while the other cupped my jaw, kissing me back with a rough sound low in his throat that made my knees weak instantly.

The wine glass slipped from my hand onto the side table with a clumsy clink.

"Jane," he murmured against my mouth like a warning.

Too late.

Way too late.

I kissed him again before he could say anything else.

Atlas groaned softly and suddenly I was lifted effortlessly against him, my legs wrapping around his waist while he carried me toward the bedroom like he already knew the way.

My pulse thundered wildly.

His forehead rested briefly against mine once we reached the doorway.

"Still sure?" he asked quietly.

The concern in his voice almost broke me, because no one ever asked. No one ever cared enough to ask.

I touched his face gently. "Yes."

His eyes darkened slowly, then he kissed me again. And this time there was no stopping. 

No distance. No pretending. 

Only heat and tension and the terrifying realization that Atlas Petrakis was becoming dangerous to my heart. Because somewhere between the laughter and wine and confessions under the stars... I had started trusting him.

And maybe that was the biggest mistake of all.