Chapter 4: The Chase Begins
The flowers arrived at ten o’clock. Lilli was already dressed, a knot of dread in her stomach the size of a fist, pacing the sunlit floors of her apartment. The audition was for a minor role in an indie film, a single scene as a barista who delivers a crucial line of dialogue. She’d read the sides fifty times. She knew them. But her brain felt like a sieve, last night’s memories leaking through every attempt to focus.
The knock at the door startled her. It was a delivery man holding a long, narrow box, black and sleek. She signed for it numbly, her name a wobbly line on the tablet.
Inside, on her kitchen counter, she opened it. The scent hit her first: dark, spicy, a little funereal. Black dahlias. Dozens of them, their velvety petals almost purple in the morning light. They were obscenely beautiful, heavy-headed and dramatic. Nestled amongst them was a small, cream-colored envelope.
Her hands trembled as she pulled out the card. His handwriting was neat, decisive, black ink on thick paper.
You left your panties. Should I return them in person? – T
A laugh bubbled up, hysterical and sharp, before panic clamped down. She dropped the card like it had burned her. It fluttered to the counter. She stared at the flowers, a monument to her own cowardice, to his unflinching pursuit. He knew she’d run. He was calling her on it, but with flowers, not a phone call. With a joke, not an accusation. The power of it, the sheer effortless dominance of the gesture, left her breathless.
Her phone buzzed on the countertop, a violent rattling against the marble. She saw his name light up the screen. Tom. A text. She couldn’t. Not now. She couldn’t hear his voice, that calm, knowing rumble, or read whatever perfectly calibrated thing he would say. She snatched the phone and threw it, hard. It hit the soft back of her couch and fell into the cushions, silent.
“Fuck,” she whispered to the empty, sun-drenched room.
The audition was a disaster. The casting director, a woman with a severe silver bob and tired eyes, had her read the line three times. “You’re saying the words,” the woman finally sighed, rubbing her temples. “But you’re not in them. Where are you?” Lilli knew exactly where she was: back in Tom’s bed, feeling his hands on her hips, hearing him growl “mine” in her ear. She apologized, mumbled something about not sleeping well, and fled.
Viv was waiting on her couch when she stumbled back through the door hours later, the smell of the black dahlias now cloying and overwhelming. Viv held up Lilli’s lost phone. “You have, like, eleven increasingly worried texts from me. And one extremely interesting notification from a ‘TB’ that popped up before I could stop myself from seeing it.” Viv’s eyebrow was arched nearly to her hairline. “It said, ‘The flowers are a peace offering, not a trap. Talk to me.’”
Lilli collapsed onto the couch beside her, burying her face in a cushion. “It’s a long story.”
“I have wine,” Viv said, producing a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from her oversized bag. “And a professional interest in my best friend’s potential date with a global sporting deity who apparently sends creepy-sexy flowers. Start talking.”
The story spilled out in a jumble: the Velvet Lounge, the penthouse, the sex—the devastating, thorough, life-altering sex—and her dawn escape. The flowers. The note about her underwear. Viv listened, sipping her wine, her expression shifting from amused to concerned to utterly stunned.
“Jesus Christ, Lilli,” Viv breathed when she’d finished. “You fucked Tom Brady. Like, fucked him fucked him.”
“That’s the summary, yes.”
“And then you performed a walk of shame from Tom Brady’s penthouse at dawn. And now he’s sending you Dahlias of Doom and texting like a rom-com hero who’s also a sexy general. What the actual fuck?”
“I don’t know!” Lilli moaned, grabbing the wine bottle and taking a long, ungraceful swig. “I panicked. It was too much. He’s too much. It was perfect and it scared the shit out of me.”
Viv studied her. “Did he… was he okay? I mean, not to be crude, but…”
“He was perfect,” Lilli said, the words quiet and agonized. “Attentive. Checks and balances. Mind-blowing. Like, ‘see-God’ kind of blow. And then… gentle. He got me water. He held me.” She looked at her friend, despairing. “That’s worse, isn’t it? If he’d been a dick, I could just be angry and move on. But he wasn’t. He was… present. And then I ghosted him.”
Viv nodded slowly. “So this,” she gestured to the oppressive bouquet, “isn’t him being a creep. It’s him saying ‘I see your bullshit, and I’m not buying it.’ In a very expensive, dramatic way.”
“Yes.”
“And what do you want?”
Lilli stared at the black flowers. They were so unapologetically him. Not pretty. Not sweet. Striking and unforgettable. “I don’t know.”
“Bullshit,” Viv said gently. “You do. You’re just scared he doesn’t want the same thing.”
Before Lilli could answer, her phone buzzed again. Viv, eyes wide, handed it over. It wasn’t Tom. It was an assistant from the gallery where Lilli had a part-time job as a hostess for events. “Emergency,” the text read. “Sarah’s sick. Can you cover the Graham Gala tonight? Black tie. Bonus. Say yes.”
It was a lifeline. A distraction. A way to be someone else for a few hours—competent, anonymous, just a girl in a black dress pouring champagne. “I have to work tonight,” she told Viv, already standing up. “I’m saying yes.”
The Graham Gallery was all soaring white walls and concrete floors, currently humming with the low, moneyed murmur of a high-end benefit. Lilli moved through the crowd like a ghost, a tray of delicate flutes in her hands. She wore a simple, elegant black sheath, her hair pinned up. She was scenery. It was bliss.
She was refilling a patron’s glass when she felt the air change. A shift in the room’s energy, a subtle reorientation of attention. She didn’t have to look up. She knew.
He stood near a massive canvas of swirling, angry color, looking like he’d been born in a tuxedo. It fit him with a ruthless precision, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders, the lean line of his torso. He was listening to an older man talk, nodding politely, but his eyes were scanning the room. Purposeful. Hunting.
Their eyes locked.
A jolt, pure and electric, shot through her. She fumbled a flute, catching it just before it tipped. His gaze held hers, unwavering. There was no smile. No wave. Just that intense, blue-green focus, trained on her as if she were the only person in the universe. He excused himself from the man and began to move through the crowd. He didn’t rush. He carved a path with sheer presence, people parting without him seeming to notice.
He stopped before her. He didn’t touch her. He just looked, his eyes taking in her dress, her pinned-up hair, the tray in her hands.
“Lilli,” he said. Her name in his voice was a private thing here, in this public space.
“Tom.” It came out as a whisper.
“You work here.”
“I… yes. Covering a shift.”
He nodded slowly. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“You found me.”
“I always find what I’m looking for,” he said, his tone even, leaving no room for doubt. “We need to talk. But not here.” His eyes flickered around the crowded room. “Is there somewhere quiet?”
Her heart was a wild drum against her ribs. She led him, wordlessly, through a door marked ‘Staff Only,’ down a short, brightly lit hallway, and into a small storage closet. It was lined with shelves holding spare linens and cases of wine. It smelled of clean cotton and dust. She closed the door, and the world shrank to the two of them in the dim glow of a single bare bulb.
The second the latch clicked, the polite mask dropped. His hands were on her face, turning her to him. His kiss wasn’t gentle. It was claiming, hungry, a dam breaking. It tasted of expensive whiskey and frustration. She kissed him back just as fiercely, the tray forgotten, her hands gripping the lapels of his tuxedo jacket.
He broke away, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to hers. “You ran.”
“I panicked.”
“Why?”
“Because it was perfect!” The words burst out of her. “Because you’re you and I’m me and it was… a lot. It’s all a lot. The flowers, the note… my fucking underwear…”
A faint smile touched his lips. “I have them. They’re in my pocket.”
She blinked. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.” He pulled a small, silken scrap of black lace from his inside pocket. Her underwear. He held them up, the delicate fabric absurd in his large, capable hand. “I told you I’d return them.”
She stared, shock giving way to a helpless, hysterical laugh. “You’re insane.”
“I’m persistent.” He tucked them away again, his expression turning serious. “I don’t do casual, Lilli. Not like that. Not with you. What happened wasn’t a one-night stand for me. I thought I made that clear.”
“You did,” she said, the fight leaving her. “I just… didn’t believe it.”
“Believe it.” He cupped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I want to see you again. Properly. A date. No penthouse. No escape clauses. Just you and me. Can you handle that?”
His directness was a tonic. There were no games, just a clear, clean question. The chaos in her mind stilled. “Yes.”
“Good.” He leaned in, kissing her again, softer this time. A seal on a promise. His hand slid down her arm, his thumb stroking the inside of her wrist. “I have to get back to my table. They’re about to start the auction.” He reached into his jacket again and pulled out a different, smaller card—a gallery program. He scribbled something on the back. “My address. Not the hotel. My place. Come over when your shift ends. I’ll be waiting.”
He opened the door, the noise of the gala flooding back in. With one last, searing look, he was gone, melting back into the crowd.
The rest of her shift passed in a blur. The address was for a building in the hills, discreet and famous. When her duties ended, she didn’t hesitate. She took a cab, the city lights sprawling below her, her stomach fluttering with a nervous anticipation that felt fresh, clean.
His house was modern, all glass and warm wood, suspended over the canyon. He answered the door himself, having changed out of the tuxedo into dark jeans and a simple grey henley. He looked younger, softer. Real.
“Hi,” he said, stepping aside to let her in.
The interior was breathtaking but lived-in. A fire crackled in a vast fireplace. A large, comfortable-looking sofa faced the floor-to-ceiling windows. There were books. A blanket tossed over an armchair.
“Can I get you a drink?” he asked, leading her to the kitchen, which was all clean lines and stone.
“Water, please.”
He filled a glass, handed it to her. Their fingers brushed. The air between them crackled, but it was a different energy now. Less frantic, more deliberate.
“I’m sorry I ran,” she said, leaning against the island.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” he replied, mirroring her posture on the other side. “I forget, sometimes, the effect… all of this,” he gestured vaguely at the room, the view, himself, “can have.”
“It’s not just that,” she admitted. “I’m… out of my depth. With you.”
He considered her. “I don’t want you in my depth, Lilli. I want you right here, next to me, on the surface where I can see you.” He took a sip of his own water. “Tell me about your day. The audition.”
She told him. He listened, really listened, asking questions about the scene, the director, her choices. He didn’t offer platitudes. He analyzed it with her, with a focus that reminded her he was, at his core, a strategist. It was deeply calming.
He led her to the couch. They talked. About meaningless things, profound things. The time slipped away. The fire burned low.
Eventually, the conversation lulled. The quiet was companionable, thick with unsaid things. He reached out, his hand tracing the line of her jaw. “I want to take you to bed, Lilli. But not like last time. Not because it’s a thrilling secret. I want to take you to bed because you’re here, in my home, and I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather you be.”
His words melted the last of her resistance. She nodded.
His bedroom was spacious, dominated by a low, wide platform bed. The canyon view was a black velvet blanket dotted with distant lights. He stood before her, his hands coming to the thin straps of her dress. He pushed them slowly off her shoulders, letting the fabric fall to her waist. His eyes darkened as he looked at her.
“Every time,” he breathed, “it’s like seeing something miraculous.”
He unhooked her bra, his fingers deft. He knelt, helping her step out of her dress and underwear. Then he stood, pulling his own henley over his head, pushing his jeans and boxers down. He was fully, breathtakingly erect. He didn’t rush. He let her look, the firelight painting his body in gold and shadow.
He guided her onto the bed, settling her in the center. He lay beside her, propped on an elbow, his free hand beginning a slow, thorough exploration. This wasn’t the desperate heat of the hotel or the charged tension in the closet. This was a study. He kissed the inside of her elbow, the hollow of her throat, the delicate skin over her ribcage. He took his time, his mouth hot and wet on her nipples, licking and sucking until she was arching off the bed. He moved lower, his breath warming her belly.
“Spread your legs for me,” he murmured, and it wasn’t a command, it was a request.
She obeyed, a shudder of anticipation running through her. He positioned himself between her thighs, but instead of his mouth, she felt his fingers first, parting her, sliding through her wetness. He let out a low groan. “You’re so fucking ready. Dripping for me.”
He finally lowered his mouth, his tongue a flat, hot stroke up her center. He lapped at her, his rhythm slow and filthy, savoring her. “Taste yourself,” he growled against her sensitive flesh. “Sweet and perfect.” He focused on her clit, circling it with a relentless pressure, his fingers sliding inside her, curving upward. The dual sensation was overwhelming. She cried out, her hands fisting in his hair.
He worked her with his mouth and fingers, building her slowly, inexorably, toward a climax. He’d bring her to the edge, then back off, whispering praise. “That’s it, give it up. Come on my tongue. I want to feel you come.”
When it finally broke, it wasn’t a shatter, but a deep, rolling wave that left her gasping and limp. He kissed his way up her body, his weight settling over her. He sheathed himself with a condom from the nightstand, his movements sure.
He positioned himself at her entrance, holding her gaze. “Look at me,” he said. “This time, you stay. You see it through.”
He pushed inside.
It was slower than the first time, deeper. A claiming that was also a welcoming. He filled her utterly, stretching her, until their hips met. He held there, buried to the hilt, letting her adjust. His face was a mask of pure, strained pleasure. “Fuck, Lilli. You feel…”
He began to move. A deep, grinding thrust, then a slow withdrawal, then another push, hitting
He began to move. A deep, grinding thrust, then a slow withdrawal, then another push, hitting a spot inside her that made her vision blur. “You feel like fucking heaven,” he finished, the words ragged.
He established a rhythm that was pure, controlled power. Each stroke was a deliberate possession, his hips driving into her with a force that shifted her up the bed. The slap of skin, the wet, sucking sounds of their joining, his guttural curses—it was a brutal, beautiful symphony. “Take it,” he growled, his arms caging her head. “Take all of me, Lilli. Your perfect little cunt is gripping me like a fist.”
She couldn’t speak, could only gasp, her nails scoring down his back. The pleasure was a white-hot wire, pulled taut from her core to her toes. He shifted his angle, driving deeper, and her back arched off the mattress. “There,” he rasped, watching her face. “Right there. I can feel you clenching. You gonna come for me again?”
She nodded, frantic, mindless. He fucked her through it, his pace never faltering as her second orgasm ripped through her, a violent, shuddering wave that tore a scream from her throat. He followed moments later, his own climax a raw, snarling release as he buried himself to the hilt, pulsing inside her. He collapsed, his weight a welcome anchor, his breath hot and harsh against her neck.
They lay like that for a long time, sweat cooling on their skin. He finally stirred, disposing of the condom before pulling her back against him, her back to his chest. His arms wrapped around her, his face buried in her hair. “You stayed,” he murmured into her scalp.
“I stayed,” she whispered back.
She woke to sunlight streaming across the expensive linen sheets and the smell of coffee. He was already up, dressed in casual trousers and a tight t-shirt, holding two mugs. He handed her one. “We’re going out tonight,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. His tone was casual, but his eyes held a spark.
“Out where?”
“Dinner. A place called The Anchorage. It’s public. Very public.” He watched her over the rim of his mug. “I’m done with hiding. I want to be seen with you.”
The statement was a boulder dropped into the calm pond of the morning. She sipped the coffee, buying time. “That’s a big spotlight, Tom.”
“I know.” He placed his hand over hers. “But I’ll be right there with you. Just dinner.”
The Anchorage was the kind of restaurant that didn’t need a sign. A discreet door in a vine-covered wall led to a cavernous, noisy space with exposed brick and nautical ropes. The air buzzed with the sound of clinking glasses and confident laughter. Every head turned as they were shown to a central table. A low wave of whispers followed them, a visible current through the room.
Lilli felt the stares like physical touches. She held his arm a little tighter. He simply guided her forward, his posture relaxed, a faint, unreadable smile on his face. He pulled out her chair, his hand lingering on her shoulder for a moment, a public declaration of a private claim.
They were halfway through their appetizers when the atmosphere shifted again. A new ripple of attention moved toward the entrance. Lilli glanced up and felt her blood freeze.
Gisele Bündchen stood there, a vision of effortless elegance in a cream-colored dress, her smile radiant and fixed as she acknowledged a wave from across the room. She was with a group of sharp-eyed, equally glamorous women. Her gaze swept the restaurant, landed on their table, and didn’t slide away. It locked. The famous smile didn't falter, but something in her eyes cooled, hardened.
Tom had seen her. Lilli felt the subtle stiffening of his spine beside her. He took a slow sip of water, his expression becoming carefully neutral.
Gisele began moving through the room, not directly toward them, but on a path that would unavoidably intersect with theirs. She stopped a few feet from their table, her friends hovering just behind.
“Tom,” she said, her voice a melodic, warm instrument. “What a surprise.” Her eyes, however, held no warmth. They flicked to Lilli, a swift, comprehensive assessment that took in her dress, her posture, her face, and dismissed her all in a fraction of a second.
“Gisele,” Tom said, nodding. His tone was polite, distant.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your… friend?” Gisele asked, the slight pause before “friend” dripping with perfectly pitched innocence.
“This is Lilli,” Tom said, his hand coming to rest over Lilli’s on the table. A protective, possessive gesture. “Lilli, this is Gisele.”
“Lilli,” Gisele repeated, as if tasting the name and finding it bland. “How lovely.” Her gaze lingered on Tom’s hand covering Lilli’s. A practiced, dazzling smile. “It’s so good to see you looking… relaxed, Tom. Really. The simple life must agree with you.” The barb was exquisitely delivered, framing Lilli as a casual downgrade, a footnote.
Lilli felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She said nothing, offering a small, tight smile.
Gisele’s attention swung back to Tom, a more intimate, knowing look passing between them. She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice to a confidential purr meant to be overheard. “You know, the kids were just asking about you. They miss their dad. Maybe you can find some time between your… new pursuits?” She straightened, the benevolent smile returning. “So wonderful to meet you, Lilli. Enjoy your dinner. It’s so… cozy here.”
She floated away on a cloud of her own perfume, her friends trailing in her wake.
The air at their table felt vacuum-sealed. Tom’s jaw was tight. He looked at Lilli, his eyes blazing with a cold fury he hadn’t shown before. “I’m sorry,” he said, the words clipped.
“It’s fine,” Lilli whispered, but it wasn’t. The woman’s precision cruelty had been a masterclass. She’d diminished Lilli, needled Tom about his children, and reasserted her lasting connection to his life—all in thirty seconds of glittering poison.
The rest of the meal passed under a pall. Tom was attentive, but his mind was elsewhere, a storm cloud in his eyes. As they left, the flash of cameras erupted at the entrance. Paparazzi, tipped off or lying in wait. He shielded her, his arm strong around her shoulders, his face a mask of stoic determination as they pushed through to his waiting car.
The photos were everywhere by midnight. Tom Brady, Stone-Faced, Shields Mystery Woman From Ex-Wife Gisele’s Glare. Who Is Lilli James? Brady’s New Arm Candy Sparks Family Drama.
Her phone exploded. Texts from Viv, a hysterical voicemail from her mother, interview requests from tabloids she’d never heard of. The quiet, sunlit world of her apartment had been breached. She was no longer just Lilli. She was Tom Brady’s new girlfriend, captured in stark clarity: her face pale under the restaurant lights, his hand on hers, Gisele’s cutting smile looming in the background.
In his silent car, speeding through the night, Tom finally spoke. His voice was low, fierce, his gaze fixed on the city lights. “That won’t happen again.” He wasn’t talking about the photographers.