One text shouldn't have the power to undo days of careful rationalization.
I'd almost convinced myself I could handle seeing Lucas in a business setting—that I could be professional, distant, unaffected by his presence.
But those carefully constructed defenses were crumbling with every passing second, memories of that night flooding back with merciless clarity.
The weight of his body pressed mine into the mattress. The gentle command in his voice as he'd urged me to let go.
The unexpected tenderness afterward, holding me as if I were something precious rather than convenient.
My phone buzzed again. I ignored it, determined to reclaim my equilibrium. This was precisely what Zoe had warned me about—my pattern of being drawn to unavailable men who offered crumbs of validation.
Lucas might be different from Miles in his methods, but the result would be the same: destruction.
Mine, specifically.
Five minutes passed.
Ten.
The knowledge that another message waited gnawed at my resolve until I couldn't bear it.
I grabbed the phone, telling myself I was just going to delete whatever he'd sent without reading it.
A lie, of course.
Unknown Number:
Your silence says more than a refusal would. But know this, Savannah: what happened between us wasn't a mistake. It was inevitable.
The presumption in his words should have angered me. Instead, they sent a dangerous thrill down my spine—the same jolt I'd felt when he'd commanded me to look at him while pleasure unraveled me.
I shouldn't respond.
Shouldn't engage.
Shouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing how completely he'd disrupted my carefully structured life.
Yet my thumbs moved across the screen of their own accord:
There's nothing inevitable about this. We both know better.
The response came so quickly, I knew he must have been waiting, watching for those telltale typing dots.
Do we? Because I haven't thought of anything else since that night. Since I discovered who you are. Since I realized how impossible this should be, and how little that fact seems to matter.
I pressed the phone against my chest, feeling my heart pound against it.
His words mirrored my own conflicted thoughts with unsettling accuracy.
How could he know? How could he see through me so easily when we'd shared just one night, a few stolen moments in a hotel bar?
It DOES matter, I typed back. Your son. My professional reputation, my career. Your company. Everything we both value is at risk.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, and appeared again.
I waited, breath caught in my throat, for whatever argument he would mount against my logic.
You think I don't know that? That I haven't spent every waking moment since Sunday weighing the consequences? I built my life on calculated risks, Savannah. On weighing potential loss against potential gain. This is the first time in many years the scale has tipped toward risk.
