Coincidence? Maybe.
But I’ve never believed in those.
What the hell is Bella doing here? I can barely think straight.
I walk, but I’m not really seeing the crowds or the gate numbers. All I see is her—that night—Bella straddling me in that hotel, head thrown back, hair wild, tits bouncing as she rides me hard and desperate, her breath catching every time I drive up into her. I remember her nails raking my chest, the heat and slick of her body squeezing around me until I lose control. It’s beenfour years, but just one accidental touch in a Paris terminal and I’m fucking hard for her, like nothing’s changed. The rest of the world blurs. All I want is her again.
What the fuck are the odds? I spot her again. She’s up at the Air France counter, talking fast, clutching her bag like it’s a lifeline. I hang back, dropping my cap low, letting the brim shade my eyes. No need for her to see me—not yet.
She’s asking about flights to New York. I edge a little closer, blending into a crowd of businessmen and families arguing over seat assignments.
I dig my ticket out of my pocket. Same airline, same route. The universe really does have a sick sense of humor.
I call Nikolai. He answers on the first ring. “Yes?”
“I need you to work your magic. There’s a passenger here—Isabella Thomas. She needs to be on my flight to New York. I want her upgraded, booked, bribed—whatever it takes. You have two minutes. If it takes three, start updating your resume.”
He sputters. “Two minutes? But?—”
“One minute, fifty-five seconds,” I cut in, watching the agent start to shake her head at Bella. “If you’re late, you’re overseeing the Jersey City deal.”
“You know how much I hate that city, boss.”
“One minute, forty.” I glance at Bella, who looks like she’s about to cry.
He groans. “You know you can’t fire me. But don’t worry, I got your precious ticket.”
I hang up, smirking as I watch the agent’s screen flicker. In less than a minute, Bella’s face shifts from defeat to confusion, then relief.
“You got yourself a seat in first class,” I say. “My treat.”
I hear Nikolai chuckle. “You can’t pay me to sit there. I’m fine where I am, thanks, boss. I’ll see you in New York.”
I hang up. I haven’t seen Nikolai since the day of the deal. I assume he’s with a woman, and I don’t want to intrude on his personal time. Once we’re in New York, he’ll return to my side as my shadow. Here in Paris, I’m no one important.
I lean back against the pillar, feeling the thrill settle into my bones. Bella’s on the flight now. She just doesn’t know what she’s in for.
Just as I’m about to put my phone away, I see her turn from the counter—and she’s not alone. She leans down and scoops up a little girl from a stroller, maybe three or four years old, with sleepy golden curls and cheeks still pink from crying.
For a second, it doesn’t register. Then it hits me—Bella has a kid?
The memory slams into me—New York, four years ago, her mouth on mine in a hotel room with city lights spilling over our bodies, her laugh muffled against my throat. I tried to find her after that night, but she vanished, changed numbers, gone like smoke.
And now, after all these years, she shows up with a daughter?
My heart thumps, cold and strange. I study the kid’s face—her eyes, her mouth—searching for something familiar, some proof that I’m not dreaming or paranoid.
It makes no sense. Was she married? Divorced? Who the hell is this kid’s father?
I step back into the shadows, watching her walk away, the little girl’s arms tight around her neck.
I sink back behind a column, just watching them go, my heart pounding hard and ugly in my chest. All this time, I thought I was just missing her. Turns out, she had a secret.
And now I want to know everything.
It can’t be my kid. That’s impossible. Not since the accident. I told myself that years ago—no matter what the doctors say about miracles, I know my own body. That night in New York was just that—a night.
Still, seeing Bella cradling a little girl rattles me. My chest feels too tight, like someone’s twisting the memory of old injuries into something fresh and raw. The questions are still there—who the father is, where she went, why she left—but now they’re tangled up with something colder. A reminder of everything I can’t have.
