Chapter 15
May 30, 2025
I was halfway through reapplying my lip gloss when I realized I was tapping my mouth like an idiot. Damon. The way he’d looked at me last night, eyes intense, like he was two seconds from ruining everything we’d built just to taste me.
That almost-kiss? Yeah, it was still lodged somewhere in my chest, a pulse I couldn’t shake. I blinked hard, trying to clear the thought. Focus, Celene. The real war was still on the table. No time for fantasy.
I grabbed my phone, heading toward the vending machines. Caffeine. Not closure. But then… my morning took a turn.
There he was. Rhys. His back turned, his phone pressed to his ear. The way his shoulders were tensed, his jaw set… he was pissed.
“No, Bianca,” he hissed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can’t just leave. I’m in the middle of work. Real work.” There was a pause. And then her voice shrilled, loud enough I could hear it clearly from three feet away.
“It’s my birthday, Rhys!”
Oh, this was too good. I didn’t hesitate.
“Rhys,” I called out, voice casual, but sharp enough to slice through his tension. “You free for a quick talk?”
He whipped around like I’d caught him in some kind of lie. The moment he saw me, his whole expression shifted, like I was the answer to a question he hadn’t realized he’d been asking.
Without a second thought, he ended the call. “Yeah. Of course.”
Ten minutes later, we were in Halden & Co., the kind of place you’d expect a political summit to happen, not an emotional execution. I slid into the booth, signaling for two bourbons. He didn’t sit across from me, of course. He sat next to me. Predictable.
I leaned back, trying to look unaffected. I wasn’t here for a fight. I was here to close things. “I’m not here to cause problems,” I said, tone even, businesslike. “I just wanted to clear the air. I’ve moved on, Rhys.”
He blinked. Once. Twice. Then he let out a short laugh, like I’d just told him a bad joke. “You what?”
“I’ve moved on,” I repeated, steady. “It’s done. No grudge. Just… peace.”
He stared at me like I’d slapped him. Hard.
“You’re serious?” His voice was tight.
I nodded. “Stone cold.”
His jaw clenched. “That’s not possible.”
“Why?”
“Because we were real. You and me, we mattered.”
I took a slow sip of bourbon, letting the burn settle in my chest. “Past tense, Rhys. It’s all in the past.”
That was when the unraveling started. The laugh came again, but it cracked at the edges, a little desperate.
“I…I made a mistake..”
“No,” I said, voice quiet but firm. “You chose what was beneficial for you.”
He slammed his glass down and refilled it. The quiet between us thickened.
“Bianca is suffocating,” he muttered, his voice heavy. “Do you know what it’s like to live in a museum of someone else’s fantasy? I come home, and everything’s curated, color-coordinated, empty.” He poured another.
“She cries when I miss brunch. She threw a tantrum because I forgot to post her birthday tribute before noon.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Sounds exhausting.”
“I hate it,” he snapped, slamming his fist on the table. “But it’s what I deserve, right? That’s the punishment, isn’t it?”
I said nothing. Let him spiral.
“I tried to replace you,” he said, voice raw now. “But every time I look at her, all I see is what I lost.”
And then, just like that, he slipped. Off the booth. Onto his knees. In a high-end executive bar.
“Rhys—” I started, but he was already gripping the edge of my seat, like I was the only thing keeping him from drowning.
“I love you,” he whispered. “I never stopped. Not for a day. I wake up next to her, and all I wish is that it was you. I see you in boardrooms, on the street, in my fucking dreams.”
His voice cracked. “I made the biggest mistake of my life.”
I stared down at him, drunk, pathetic, ruined. And for a split second? I didn’t feel pity. I felt power. Real power. My hand clenched around my drink, but my lips stayed steady. I leaned in close, my breath barely brushing his ear.
“You should eat something.”
Ten minutes later, he was slumped sideways in the booth, mumbling my name like some kind of prayer. I fixed my collar, wiped invisible lint from my jacket, and then I called Damon. He picked up on the second ring.
“You busy?” I asked, voice calm. “I need someone to talk to.”
Fifteen minutes. That’s all it took. Damon walked in, took one look at the scene—Rhys, half-conscious, red-eyed, a mess. Me, standing by the bar, arms folded, glass untouched—and froze. He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t need to. His eyes scanned the room, taking in everything I wasn’t saying.
He exhaled, the sound low and deliberate. His gaze flickered from Rhys to me, a hint of understanding passing between us.
“You’ve got a hell of a way of making a point,” he said, his voice low.
I didn’t say anything. Just gave him a look that could’ve been a warning or an invitation—maybe both. He took it for what it was.
