I get up, and stalk toward her before she can do just that. Not because I want her to stay. Because I need answers.
Need to understand why I can’t get her out of my goddamn head.
“You left.” The words come out quieter than I intended. Exposing more than I meant to.
“I had to,” she says finally.
Her answer pisses me off more than it should.
What the hell was I expecting, a fucking apology?
“I’m sorry, I should have gone to a different cafe,” she says. “Should’ve guessed you’d be using the resort’s as your own personal conference room.”
She turns to go.
She’s leaving.
Again.
And suddenly I’m even more furious.
At her, at myself, at this entire fucked-up situation.
My brain kicks into overdrive. The same strategist mode that has closed a thousand deals. The part of me that can spot anopportunity in a burning building and extract value before the roof caves in.
Wait.
Marisol.
The clinic.
Six weeks of community legal work.
Amara does contract law.
Corporate litigation.
She spent two years cleaning up foundation scandals after her mentor got burned.
This could actually work.
Not because I want her here.
Christ, the last thing I need is more complications.
But because this is strategic.
The foundation needs credibility, and her reputation is spotless.
She can review the predatory contracts threatening the islanders, and I can prove to her, and to myself, that I’m not the villain everyone thinks I am.
Six weeks. That’s all. Just long enough to show the world I’m trying to do the right thing. Then we go our separate ways and I can finally stop thinking about her.
It’s not personal.
It’s purely tactical.
The whole thing crystallizes in under three seconds.
