I came with a grunt as my forehead pressed against the cool tile, my breath ragged and uneven.
I had gotten off to the thought of her, but it wasn’t enough.
It would never be enough.
I was in my office by seven, dressed in my usual dark dress shirt and slacks, a cup of black coffee going cold on my desk. The morning light filtered through the windows, casting long shadows across the room.
The Gilded Cage was quiet during the day—the staff had their routines, the deliveries came and went, but the bar itself was still, waiting for the night to breathe life into it.
I couldn’t focus.
I’d tried.
I’d pulled up the Peter’s report on Zara—skimming through the details I already knew. No criminal record. Clean social media. A marketing job at a mid-sized firm that paid her peanuts. A lease that had ended with the breakup. A father who’d walked out when she was a kid, a mother who’d passed away. Three siblings, one currently in prison on drug charges.
But the report didn’t tell me what she smelled like. It didn’t tell me how her voice sounded when she was scared, or how her eyes got wide when she was trying to be brave.
I needed more.
I needed her.
The door to my office creaked open as I looked up, irritation flaring—I’d told the staff I didn’t want to be disturbed—but the face that appeared around the edge of the door softened all the frustration.
Carla was in her sixties, with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a bun and a face that had seen too much and loved, anyway. She’d been with my family for thirty years—had watched me grow up, had bandaged my scraped knees and lied to my father about where I’d been. She was the closest thing I’d ever had to a real mother.
“Enzo,” she said, her voice carrying that gentle reproach she’d perfected over decades. “You didn’t eat breakfast.”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
She tutted, pushing the door open fully. She was carrying a plate covered with a cloth, and the smell of warm chocolate drifting across the room. “I brought you cookies. The ones you like.”
She set them on the edge of my desk, then stood there, her arms crossed, giving me that look.
“You look terrible,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“Have you slept?”
“No,” I replied dryly.
“Eaten?”
“The cookies.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t touched them.”
I looked down at the plate, then back at her. A small, reluctant smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. Carla was the only person in the world who could make me feel like a child again, in the best way.
“I’ll eat them,” I said.
“When?”
I reached for a cookie and took a bite. It was warm and soft, the chocolate melting on my tongue. Comfort. That’s what Carla’s cookies were. Comfort in flour, sugar, and butter.
She watched me for a moment before her gaze softened. Then she moved closer, her hand brushing my shoulder.
“There’s something you want,” she said, knowingly.
