I kept my smile polite, unwilling to reveal anything deeper.
Greg straightened, smoothing his tie. “I’ll see you both Monday morning at our office. We’ll review the project wrap-ups before you head back home.”
“We’ll be there,” Adriana said cheerfully.
I nodded once, holding my composure.
Inside, I was already counting the hours.
* * *
Dorian
The door swings open without a knock, and Leah glides in like she owns the place—heels clicking against the marble floor with that familiar metronome rhythm of control.
She never just enters a room. She claims it.
Tall. Impeccable. Her icy blonde hair is twisted into a perfect chignon, and not a single strand dares defy her. Leah Kingsley looks every inch the woman who’s been raised on privilege and power.
Her tailored suit, sharp as her tongue, molded to her willowy frame, whispering of old money and ruthless ambition. She’s all clean lines and cool calculation. Her skin is pale, flawless. Her eyes—those hard, assessing blue eyes—miss nothing.
She doesn’t even glance at me as she drops a folder onto my desk.
“We need to finalize the Lakeview permits,” she says, voice clipped, all business.
I don’t look up. My reply is flat. Detached.
“David will handle it.”
She pauses for a brief moment. Subtle. But I see the faint tightening around her mouth, the flicker of irritation in her eyes. Most people wouldn’t catch it but I’ve known her too long not to.
“You’re unusually distracted,” she remarks, voice like frost on glass. Smooth but dangerous underneath.
I finally lift my gaze to meet hers. Cold and impassive.
“Work isn’t everything, Leah.”
A dry laugh escapes her lips. It’s not amused. It’s brittle. Almost hollow.
“No,” she says softly. “But it’s the only thing that ever kept us on the same side.”
The air thickens between us. Heavy with truths neither of us is willing to name.
We were married once. Young. Maybe too young. I wanted a home and a real marriage while she wanted power, admiration, control, the kind of influence her mother raised her to chase. For a while, she liked being the center of my world. But it wasn’t enough for her. It never was, so she left.
She knows better than to bring any of that up now. And I won’t.
This was never about love. Never about us. It’s always been about power.
And when it comes to power—Leah never plays to lose.
* * *
Della
When I get back to the hotel, a bouquet of light pink peonies waits at my hotel room. My all-time favorites. No note. Just a card, his handwriting unmistakable—sharp, slanted, too familiar.
"Let’s have dinner. Tonight. 7 PM. Lobby. - D."
