Cream. One sugar. Stirred exactly seven times.
When she wanders in a few minutes later, hair mussed, eyes half-closed, wearing one of my shirts like it already belongs to her, my chest tightens.
I hand her the mug without a word.
She blinks at it, then smiles softly. “You remembered.”
“I remember,” I say simply.
She takes a sip, hums in approval, and leans against the counter like the world hasn’t just turned me upside down.
“I’m going to work out,” I tell her, needing distance before I do something reckless. “We can have breakfast after. If that’s okay.”
She nods immediately. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
The gym becomes my refuge—and my punishment.
I push my body hard, harder than necessary. Music blaring. Sweat burning. Legs screaming. I run like I can outrun the voice in my head telling me I forced her into this. That I made choices for her before she had the chance to make them herself.
It doesn’t work.
By the time I shower and make it back upstairs, the weight is still there. Quieter. Waiting.
Breakfast is easy. Too easy.
We talk about nothing important—weather, errands, the way mornings feel different in this house now. I ask about her plans, keeping my tone casual.
“I’m going to check on Mrs. D,” she says. “Make sure everything’s okay with Olga.”
“Take a driver,” I reply automatically. “Whatever you need. If you want to stop anywhere—”
I pause, then add, carefully, “If you need to go to the Reserve, just tell me.”
She looks up at me, amused.
Then she shakes her head. “I won’t be heading to the Reserve.”
I nod once, “Okay, let me know if you change your mind.”
It feels wrong leaving her like that.
Standing in the doorway this morning, coffee in her hand, hair still sleep-tangled, looking at me like she expects something—and I give her space instead. No kiss. No touch. Just a quiet goodbye and the sound of the door closing behind me.
I hate myself for how hard it is to walk away.
But I do it anyway.
The elevator ride up to the office is silent, the city rising into view as if nothing in my world has shifted. When the doors slide open, Jack is already there—leaning against the wall, a fresh cup of coffee in hand, his expression grim enough that I know better than to waste time.
He steps forward and presses the cup into my hand. “We’ve got a problem.”
I take it without comment. “Just give it to me straight.”
He nods. That’s why he’s still here. No fluff.
“The last shipment of rubies,” he says as we walk. “It came up short.”
I stop cold. “By how much?”
