“Sure,” I agree, because arguing would only raise questions I can’t answer.
Dad walks around the desk to clap a hand on my shoulder. It’s meant to be comforting, I think, but it just feels heavy. “Things will get better, son. These young relationships rarely last anyway. You’ll find someone more suitable eventually.”
I force a smile and nod. If he only knew what “suitable” might look like for me now.
The office door opens, and Dad’s assistant reminds him of his next meeting. I take the opportunity to escape, promising to call Mom about Sunday’s dinner as I leave.
In the elevator down to the lobby, I lean against the mirrored wall and exhale. Sam, Gray’s temporary replacement, stands silently in the corner. He’s competent enough—ex-military like Gray, but smaller, less intimidating. Less everything.
He doesn’t make me feel alive like Gray does.
The elevator doors open to the lobby, and Sam moves slightly ahead of me, scanning the area before nodding that it’s clear. I follow him out to the waiting car, sliding into the backseat.
As the car pulls away from the curb, I stare out at the city blurring past. For the first time in my life, I have no idea what tomorrow will bring. No idea if Gray will even show up or if his “personal days” are just the prelude to his resignation letter.
I try to imagine going back to the way things were before: Gray the stoic shadow, me the spoiled brat he’s paid to protect. It feels impossible after what we did.
I pull out my phone, thumb hovering over Daniela’s contact. I could call, confirm that Gray’s coming back tomorrow. Make up some bullshit about scheduling or security concerns.
But I don’t. Instead, I put the phone away and keep staring out the window.
Gray’s spent his whole life fighting battles that matter. Real ones with life-and-death stakes, not the petty dramas of my privileged existence. Maybe that’s why I need him to come back, to show me that I matter too. That I’m worth fighting for, even if the battle is just against his own better judgment.
For the first time, I understand what it means to want something I might not be able to buy, charm, or manipulate my way into having. All I can do is wait and hope that tomorrow, when the elevator doors open, Gray will be standing there.
9
Gray
I stand outside Wyatt’s penthouse door at precisely 0800, hand hovering over the doorbell like it might bite. For the past few days, I’ve been running myself to exhaustion, taking ice baths, and telling myself that what happened was a one-time lapse in judgment. And I’m still not ready for this moment. My pulse hammers in my throat as I press the button, half expecting to find Carson Kingsley on the other side with a termination letter and possibly a lawsuit.
The door swings open, and I brace for impact. But there’s no angry father, no Daniela with fury etched across her face. Just Wyatt—wide awake and fully dressed in athletic gear, a thermal long-sleeve hugging his lean torso and running shorts stopping mid-thigh. His hair is damp at the edges like he’s already showered.
“Morning.” His tone is casual, like we’re just two normal people starting a normal day.
I clear my throat. “Good morning, Mr. Kingsley.”
He rolls his eyes and steps back, giving me space to enter. “It’s Wyatt. I thought we established that.”
I step inside and notice the penthouse smells different. No lingering alcohol, no stale party remnants. Just clean air and…coffee?
“Want some?” Wyatt nods toward the kitchen, at the sleek espresso machine I’ve never seen him use before.
“Since when do you make coffee?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
“Since now.” He shrugs, moving back to the kitchen. “I can operate basic appliances, you know.”
I follow him, keeping a careful distance. The kitchen island creates a natural barrier between us, and I’m grateful for it. “I didn’t mean—”
“Relax. I know what you meant.” He pulls a cup from a cabinet, positions it under the espresso machine’s spout, and hits a button. The machine hums to life, grinding beans and streaming dark liquid into the cup. He slides it across the counter toward me. “Black, right?”
The fact that he knows how I take my coffee catches me off guard. Has he been paying attention?
“Thanks.” I accept the cup but don’t drink, my survival instincts too wired to let my guard down yet. “Look, Wyatt, about what happened—”
“I know what you’re going to say.” He leans against the counter, wrapping his hands around his own cup. “You’re going to tell me it was a mistake. That you crossed a line. That you’re resigning, or at the very least, that it can never happen again.”
I take a deep breath. “Yes.”
