"I know," I sighed. “I’ll keep things strictly professional and then figure out how to move on. Miles has already sent a proposal for my firm to work with Turner Industries on the Westlake Project. So there’s that.”
Zoe didn't look convinced, but she let it drop as our food arrived. We shifted to safer topics—her latest dating disaster, office gossip, plans for the weekend—but undercurrents of concern flowed beneath her casual conversation.
By the time we parted, I felt marginally more grounded. Zoe was right.
The risks outweighed any potential reward. I needed to be the adult, the professional, the woman who'd worked too hard to throw it all away on a reckless attraction, no matter how compelling.
I returned to the office with renewed determination, tackling my backlog of emails and finally making progress on the Waterstone brief.
By six, I'd caught up enough to justify leaving at a reasonable hour, something I hadn't managed all week.
My apartment welcomed me with quiet emptiness—no roommates, no pets, just the sleek, minimalist space I'd created after Miles.
I'd purged his influences from my life: the pretentious art he'd insisted would appreciate in value, the uncomfortable modernist furniture chosen for appearance rather than comfort, the muted color palette he'd called "sophisticated."
My new space was warm, filled with books and color and pieces I'd chosen simply because they brought me joy.
It was mine in a way nothing had been during those months living with Miles—a physical manifestation of the independence I'd reclaimed.
I changed into leggings and an oversized sweater, poured a glass of wine, and settled onto my couch with takeout and the novel I'd been trying to finish for weeks.
Normal.
Peaceful.
The life I'd carefully constructed, brick by brick, after extracting myself from Miles's orbit.
A life that felt suddenly hollow in the wake of one night with a stranger who wasn't a stranger anymore.
Stop it,I told myself firmly.One amazing night of sex doesn't justify burning down your life.
I forced myself to focus on my book, managing three chapters before my phone buzzed with a text.
Probably Zoe, checking in after our lunch. I almost didn't look, not wanting another lecture, gentle as it might be.
But it wasn't Zoe.
Unknown Number:
I've been thinking about our conversation. About what we both know we shouldn't want. I won't pressure you, but the offer stands. One night to explore, then we can walk away with no regrets. Your choice, Savannah.
My heart hammered against my ribs. Lucas.
It had to be.
His words—formal yet intimate, controlled yet revealing—matched everything I knew about him.
I could almost hear his voice, that deep timbre that had whispered against my skin in the dark.
I stared at the message, my finger hovering over the delete button. The smart choice was clear: erase it, block the number, pretend I'd never seen it.
Pretend he'd never existed.
Pretend that night had never happened.
Instead, I set the phone facedown on the coffee table and walked away.
In the kitchen, I poured another glass of wine, my hands trembling slightly.
