He scanned her quickly, noting the collarbones that jutted against the soaked fabric.She’d lost weight.Not in a healthy way.Her blouse clung to her like a second skin, outlining every curve, every dip.Her lacy bra was visible, and the sharp peaks of her nipples pressed against the wet fabric.
His body responded instantly.
Saif cursed under his breath and turned slightly, trying to push the memory of her soft laughter and tangled sheets out of his head.
However, Jemma didn’t give him time to recover, to regain control.
“Saif,” she said again, louder this time.“I’m here.Now tell me why you summoned me like a spoiled king demanding tribute.”
Damn, he’d missed that.
Even soaked to the skin, looking like a drowned rat, she still had that fire.That edge.She hadn’t lost it.If anything, it had sharpened.
He motioned down the hall, jaw clenched.
“This way.”
There were a thousand questions bubbling inside him.Why hadn’t she parked in the parking garage?Why was she drenched?Why did she look like she hadn’t slept in weeks?Why had she left him?
But those questions weren’t useful.Not right now.
And besides, he’d asked the last one before.
Her answer?
“It was time.”
She’d mumbled some other nonsense, but not a real explanation.No emotion.Just a resignation letter.
Damn her.
And damn himself, because seeing her again only confirmed what his brother and cousins had been needling him about for months.
He wasn’t over her.
That realization hit harder than it should have, and it only fueled the storm already raging inside him.
“This is why I asked to see you,” he snapped, pushing open the double doors to his office.His voice was cold, controlled—but barely.“I tried your mother’s number.She didn’t answer.So I’m dumping this in your lap.”
Jemma stepped inside—and froze.
Her breath caught audibly.“What in the...?”
Her voice trailed off as her gaze swept across the destruction.
The desk—his custom walnut desk—was splintered and gutted.Spray paint streaked the walls in jagged, angry swipes.One word dominated the chaos:cheapskate.It was scrawled across the far wall, across his desk, even across the floor.The paint had dried in streaks and droplets, adding an extra layer of venom to every letter.
She tilted her head, staring at the word as if it might rearrange itself into something less confusing.Her brow furrowed.
There were other markings, crude symbols he still hadn’t deciphered.But he wasn’t watching the walls—he was watching her.
She didn’t deny it.
Didn’t offer some flimsy excuse or fake shock.
That was one thing he’d always respected about her—Jemma never lied.Not about the things that mattered.
He closed the doors behind them, the quietclickechoing in the ruined room.
