But as I’d explained to Dakota, it wasn’t just me. Knox had scraped together every dollar he had and thrown it at my start-up. Not because he expected some massive return, but because he believed in what we were building. That money was supposed to be his safety net when he got out. His only shot at starting over. And the stubborn guy was too proud to take charity from any of us.
Knox wasn’t the only one depending on this company either. After watching him navigate the system, seeing howsociety discarded anyone labeled imperfect, I’d built something to bridge that gap. Phoenix Construction wasn’t just another building company. We specialized in large-scale commercial renovations and infrastructure projects, but our workforce was primarily people coming out of the system. We’d land contracts to renovate office buildings, restore historic properties, and build affordable housing developments. The construction industry was perfect because it offered real skills, decent wages, and companies were starting to care about hiring practices that looked good in their ESG reports.
We also provided job placement, housing assistance, addiction counseling, and comprehensive reentry services for people leaving prison. But the core business kept the lights on: we bid on multimillion-dollar contracts and delivered quality work. Our crews learned everything from electrical to plumbing to project management. The social mission attracted clients who wanted to feel good about their vendor choices, but we won contracts because we did excellent work at competitive prices. We were one of the few companies that actually hired people with records, and those that we couldn’t take on, we didn’t stop until we found somewhere they’d get hired.
Most people walked out of prison with nothing. Empty pockets, empty promises. The lucky ones found a halfway house. The really lucky ones had family who would still claim them. But most would be back inside within six months.
If Phoenix Construction failed (by the way, I was not about to explain to Dakota how, why, and who had stolen clients, resulting in massive cash flow challenges), hundreds of employees would lose their jobs, and thousands more would lose their support system, their housing, their hope. All because I couldn’t swallow my pride and play pretend.
So, yeah, I had to become everything I hated. “This whole charade … Dakota’s Instagram-perfect bullshit, the fake smiles, the public performance …”
I could see it all again. My mother at the country club, lipstick pristine, laughing at someone’s joke while her hand trembled around the stem of her water glass. The tremor she’d blame on too much coffee. The way she’d grip my shoulder in the parking lot afterward, nails digging in, whispering, “Not a word to your father,” about the flask I’d seen her tuck behind the tennis trophies.
“That performance killed my mom. And now I’m supposed to be the leading man in that same goddamn show. So, forgive me if I’m not thrilled about becoming everything I swore I’d never be.”
Blake let out a long breath. “Look, man, I get it. We all put on masks sometimes.” He shifted, his voice getting that serious edge it took on when he was about to drop some uncomfortable truth. “But Dakota’s not your mother. She’s not crafting some perfect facade to hide the fact that she’s falling apart. She’s building a brand, running a company. It’s performance, yeah, but it’s not the same kind of performance that killed your mom.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
“And staying this angry? Painting every woman who posts a pretty picture with the same brush?” Blake shook his head. “That’s not honoring your mother’s memory, man. That’s just guaranteeing you’ll spend the rest of your life pushing away anyone who might actually matter.”
I stared out the window at the Chicago skyline. The glass towers reflected the morning sun, all gleaming with promise and potential. Just like Dakota’s eyes when she’d apologized. Twice.
Shit.My past wasn’t her fault. And, I reminded myself, this was Knox’s little sister. The same sweet girl I’d met before Knox had gone away to prison.
Luckily, the guys dropped the subject, and we drove the rest of the way in merciful silence. When we reached my penthouse, I held the elevator doors open for Dakota with exaggerated chivalry.
As I did, I arched an eyebrow at the guys, as if to say,See? I’m holding the door open. Happy?
Dakota stepped past me, her floral scent wrapping around me like a deliberate attack on my self-control while her eyes swept across my space. Yesterday, during that disaster of a PR meeting, she’d barely spared my place a glance. Too busy plotting damage control or my death to notice the exposed brick walls or the vintage leather furniture I’d spent months hunting down.
But now, she was drinking it all in like she was memorizing every detail. Taking inventory of what would become her temporary prison. And mine. The way her gaze lingered on the floor-to-ceiling windows, traced the lines of my custom bookshelves, assessed the artwork I’d chosen with care … it made something lodge behind my sternum.
I shouldn’t give a damn what she thought. This was my sanctuary, where every piece meant something, told a story, reflected who I actually was beneath all the corporate bullshit.
So, why was I holding my breath, waiting for her verdict like some desperate teenager showing off his bedroom?
“It’s pretty,” she said simply, without artifice or agenda.
The fact that I loved those two words flooded me with light and frustration at once. Which was exactly what I’d been afraid of. Having her here, in my space, breathing my air, touching my things, watching her pad around in whatever she wore to bed … it was going to be so much harder than I’d convinced myself it would be. And if she kept being … kind, considerate, human, I wasn’t sure I could hold on to this protective rage.
The anger was the only thing standing between me and complete emotional annihilation.
“Follow me,” I said, my voice clipped.
She obeyed, trailing behind me as I opened the bedroom door and gestured toward the master suite. The king-sized bed dominated the room with all gray colors. Gray bedspread, darker gray pillows. I liked gray. Gray was safe. Black and white and all that. I crossed to the dresser and opened the top left drawer.
“You can put your stuff in here.”
Her eyebrows furrowed. “You mean, in the dresser?”
“I mean, in this drawer.”
“I only getonedrawer?” The beginnings of outrage simmered in her tone.
“I only have one bedroom.”
Crimson exploded on her cheeks as the implication hit her. Those freckles that dusted her nose and cheeks became more pronounced against the flush, and I tried—and failed—not to notice.
