I glance at the envelope again, then back at my phone, caught in the gravitational pull between what I should do and what I want to do.
Oliver jumps from my lap, oblivious to my internal struggle, while the weight of that simple note seems to grow heavier in my hand with each passing second. The rational part of my brain screams warnings aboutboundaries and agreements and the precarious stability we've finally achieved, but another part—the part that remembers Caine's eyes, his voice, his touch—whispers that one call couldn't possibly hurt.
"This is crazy," I whisper to Oliver, who pays me no mind.
I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't.
I grab my phone and search my contacts, my heart pounding as it rings.
The phone rings three times before he answers, and just the sound of his voice—that slow, smooth cadence—sends a rush of heat through my body.
"Jenna," Caine says, not a question but a statement. Like he knew I would call.
"I... I got the photos." My voice sounds small, breathless. I hate myself for it.
"And what do you think?" The warmth in his tone wraps around me like a physical touch.
"They're beautiful. Thank you. You made me look... so different."
"I captured what was already there." A pause, and I can practically see him leaning back in his chair, those green eyes of his narrowing thoughtfully. "What you might be too blind to see. That hint of feistiness, the vulnerability in your eyes, the quiet strength you carry despite everything weighing on you."
I swallow hard, clutching the phone tighter. Myreflection stares back at me from the hallway mirror—tired eyes, messy bun coming undone, wearing one of Reeves’s old band shirts, nothing like the woman in those photographs.
"I don't see myself that way," I confess.
"That's precisely the problem," Caine says, his voice flowing like honey, slow and deliberate. "You look in the mirror and see all your perceived flaws. The exhaustion from looking after your family, the stress of your life, the woman who thinks she's always falling short." Another calculated pause. "I look at you and see something amazing beneath all that. Now listen… sorry, I'm not trying to smooth-talk you. I just… It's how I feel about you."
My cheeks flush. "Caine… damn, you're good. You sure know how to get into a woman's head."
He laughs softly—the sound of it makes my knees weak. It's unfair how his laughter affects me. There's something about the deep, melodic rumble that seems to resonate in my chest, making me forget for just a moment about everything else, about everything except this moment.
I'm grateful he can't see my reaction through the phone, can't witness how easily he dismantles my defences with just that gentle sound. I press the phone closer to my ear, hungry for more of that sound despite myself.
"I'm not trying to get into your head, Jenna," he says. "Are you implying that I'm playing you?"
"Well, youarea player, aren't you? One of the best, right?"
He laughs again, and I love that I can make him laugh, too. "Well, yes. I'm the best at the table, but I don't play games with women. My mother raised me better than that. Spanish women don't take any shit, you know. And she made sure I knew that from an early age.”
I smile. "Yeah, and I'm a quarter Irish, and we don't take any shit either."
He laughs yet again. "And I like that about you."
"Well, you seem to like a lot of things about me. I think it'd be wiser—"
"I can't stop thinking about you," he interrupts. "The way you move. The way you smile. The way you look at me when you think I don't notice."
My heart hammers against my ribs. "This isn't appropriate, Caine. You're doing it again." I exhale, feeling the weight of his words press against my chest. The phone grows slick in my grasp as my palm begins to sweat. "You're trying to push your way into my life, into my head, into..." I pause, not daring to complete that thought aloud.
The tension between us stretches across the phone line like a taut wire. "You throw money around like itsolves everything, Caine. Like it can erase complications, or... or make people forget their promises. Their commitments."
"I want to see you again, Jenna."
"I'm married," I remind him, though the words feel hollow in my mouth. "Reeves made it clear our arrangement is over."
"One night," Caine says, his voice dropping lower. “Just one more night.”
The air leaves my lungs. "What?"
