The driver turns and smiles at me. “That’s the address you gave me.”
I look outside, considering whether I want to get out. What does a rich man like Liam Stone do in a rundown, industrial alley?
The brick facades are tired. Ahead of me, a metal door is scarred with old dents and peeling paint. No sign. No valet. No obvious security. Just a quiet stretch of concrete and shadows.
I pay and hesitate, fingers curling around the strap of my bag, considering whether to ask the driver to wait.
Would Liam put me in danger?
No.
The answer is so fast, it steals my breath, my stomach tightening.
He might have betrayed me. He might have seduced me to advance his own interests. But I still trust—I know—he would not threaten my safety.
The car pulls away, and the silence rushes in. I glance around, half-expecting cameras, alarms, some elaborate trap.
Don’t be ridiculous, I scoff at myself. I step toward the door and knock. It swings open almost immediately.
And I forget how to breathe.
The man in front of me is Liam. But this version belongs to a different world entirely. No tailored suits and polished shoes.
His sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, skin smudged with grease and faint scratches.
His hair is a mess, curling at the nape of his neck, falling into his eyes like he’s been running his hands through it too many times.
A dark T-shirt clings to his torso, damp at the collar, and worn jeans ride low on his hips.
Jesus Holy Fuck.
He looks… real. Unarmored. Dangerously beautiful.
For a second, neither of us speaks. The air between us hums, thick with oil, metal, and something sharperthat sends heat to my core. And under my ribcage as well.
His gaze flicks over me, slow and deliberate, like he’s taking inventory.
“Hey,” he says, voice rough, unused.
Something twists in my chest. Somehow, the calculated, scheming version of him suddenly feels less dangerous.
“Hey,” I rasp, my heart drumming in my chest.
He moves back, letting me in. Stepping over the threshold feels like a monumental step in our relationship.
I look down, as if that could ground me in any useful way. But there is no grounding on quicksand. I step in anyway.
“What is this place?” I ask, but before he answers, I rush forward. “Is she yours?”
I stop short of a navy-blue Bentley, waiting for permission. I know better than to come between a person and their precious vehicle. This beauty is more than a car. It’s a collectible.
“Yes, it’s mine. Did you want to add GTA to my list of wrong decisions?” His voice is stripped of its usual confidence.
I snap my gaze to him, and find a man who is breathtaking and lost. Between this morningand now, something happened that made him… I don’t know… just less, and more at the same time.
“Not all of your decisions are wrong.” I give him a soft smile.
He prowls toward me, and I fight the urge to step back. Not because I don’t want his closeness, but because I’m not sure how long I can still believe his betrayal is unforgivable.
