“Thanks, Jim,” she said, mustering one last smile before turning toward the elevators.
They opened immediately.
She stepped inside.
The doors closed with a soft ding, and the noise of the lobby fell away.Jemma’s pulse thundered as she stared up at the floor numbers.
One button glowing.
His floor.
She was on her way to see the man she’d once given everything to.The man whose world she’d stepped into like a dream—before reality hit and she’d walked away, leaving behind more than just a relationship.
Now she was heading back into that world.
Soaked, shaking, and praying she could hold her ground.
Chapter 3
Saif stood by the window, jaw tight, heart pounding.
He hated that he felt it—this involuntary reaction, this electricity in his chest.
Jemma was in the building.
She was seconds away.
Any moment now, the elevator doors would open, and she’d step out.He could already see it in his mind: that dark brown hair falling in soft waves over her shoulder, those hazel eyes catching the light.Eyes that used to light up when they met his.
They wouldn’t light up today.Not after the way she left.
She hadn’t just walked away.She’dvanished.No warning.No goodbye that made sense.Just vague excuses and a resignation letter that told him nothing.
She’d lied to him.
And now, her brother had broken into his building and spray-painted his office like a rebellious street punk.
Tonight, he was going to get answers.
The elevator chimed.
Saif turned, body taut with anticipation and barely controlled restraint.
The doors slid open—and there she was.
He stared.
Her hair clung to her face in wet ropes.Her blouse was soaked through and practically transparent, her skirt dripping onto the marble floor.She didn’t have a coat.Her makeup was streaked, and her skin was pale except for the flush of anger burning across her cheeks.
“What the hell happened to you?”he demanded, voice sharp with disbelief.
Jemma stepped out, shoulders squared.“I’m here,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.Then she cleared her throat and met his eyes with a hard glare.
That glare hit him like a shot of whiskey—burning and familiar.
She was smaller than he remembered.Five-foot-six, maybe five-eight with heels, but even soaked and trembling from the cold, she didn’t look fragile.She looked...furious.And proud.
And thinner.
