It hit harder than it should have.
I rake a hand through my hair, exhaling sharply. Fifteen years, and this place still gets under my skin.
I used to stand at Thomas’ counter after school, eating sticky buns while he and my mum talked. Back then, he smiled at me with a warmth that felt familiar. Today, he barely looked at me. His words echo in my head.You really are your father’s son.My jaw tightens. It took everything in me not to reach across the table and shut him up right then and there.
Something tightens in my chest. Guilt. I shove it aside, but it lingers.
But one thing gnawed at me throughout the entire meeting: Lila.
Lila Ng.
I glanced at her left hand more times than I want to admit, my brain circling back like a dog chasing its tail.
No ring. No tan line. Nothing.
But that doesn’t mean anything. Not everyone wears a ring. Maybe she takes it off when she works. Maybe her husband doesn’t care if she wears one. Maybe he’s the kind of man who lets his wife fight his battles while he sits on the sidelines.
That thought pisses me off more than it should.
If she’s married, where the hell was he? A real man would’ve been here, standing beside her. Protecting what’s his.
I would’ve been.
The idea of meeting him, of sizing up the man who married her, who gets to wake up beside her, touch her, know her in ways I never did, sends something dark and ugly twisting in my gut.
I have no right to care.
But I do.
I’ve been with more women than I care to admit—beautiful, intelligent, completely unattached. Women who knew the rules, who never asked for more than I could give. It was easy. Simple.
Lila is neither of those things.
No one else has ever made my chest tighten with just a glance. No one else has ever made my pulse spike with a single word.
No one else washer.
I wasn’t supposed to come back after today. One meeting. Hear them out. Nod politely. Move on. That was the plan. Clean, simple, no mess.
Then she looked at me.
Sharp. Unshakable and yet, something simmered beneath that perfectly controlled exterior.
I’ve told myself for years that leaving was the only way. That it was for the best. That she was better off without me. I want to know if she’s happy. If she hates me as much as I hate myself for what I did. If someone else stepped in and gave her the life she deserved.
Ineedto know.
Where was he? Her husband. A woman like her doesn’t stay single, but I never go after married women. Never.
But I can’t leave without looking him in the eye. Without knowing he treats her right. That he’sworthyof her.
By the time I reach my car, the decision is already made.
I’ll see her again.
Not for the project. Not for business.
For her.
