Ihaven’t seen Emma Green in twelve years. And the first thing she does is pretend I’m a stranger.
She stands tall in sleek heels, posture immaculate, every line of her body sharpened into something controlled, deliberate. Her suit is cut close, the kind that says she belongs in this glass-and-steel office where deals are brokered with nothing but words and willpower.
Her hand is outstretched, businesslike, as if it’s never curled around my neck or dragged fingernails down my back. Like we didn’t burn through each other in high school.
Like we didn’t end in flames.
“Mr. Walker,” she says, voice smooth. Polished.Fake.
The office is quiet around us, too quiet—sunlight fractured through floor-to-ceiling windows, hitting the polished mahogany table where my phone slips from my fingers and lands with a thud that echoes like a gunshot. Behind her, Miami stretches out in sharp angles and bright heat, but all I see is her.
My heart doesn’t skip—it slams.
I take her hand. Warm. Familiar. Too damn familiar.
“Emma…” My voice breaks. Raw. It’s rough with disbelief—and something else I won’t name.
The guy next to her, all blazer and smug confidence, raises a brow. “You two know each other?”
I already hate him.
Before I can answer, Emma saves him. Or maybe saves me.
“Yes,” she says lightly. “We went to school together.”
That’s all she gives me. School. Like we didn’t fall in love.
Like she didn’t shatter me.
Six hours earlier.
From the bed, I catch the sound of a seagull crying somewhere in the distance, sharp against the early hush. The ocean throws itself at the shore in that violent, relentless rhythm I’ve always respected, waves colliding like they’re trying to break through the walls of my room. Miami is only just beginning to stir, the city’s soft gray stretching into gold as the sun claws its way over the Atlantic.
I’m already up. Already tense. Already thinking about her.Damn it.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and press my feet to the cold wood floor. The house is silent—just the hush of the tide and the whisper of linen curtains drawing back with a press of a button.
The view should feel like a reward. I paid enough for it. But it just feels like a memory I didn’t ask for. Emma would lose her mind over ocean light like this. She’d drag me out barefoot, laughing, telling me,you need tofeel the sand, Luca, not just look at it.
Yeah. I’m thinking about her again.Again.
I walk naked to the kitchen—not because it’s sexy, but because it’s the only time I let myself be vulnerable. I prefer just me, the ocean, and Ana María’s precision-laid breakfast: fruit, nuts, and black coffee.
Ana Maria has worked for me for years. She shows up when I’m not here. That was the deal. She broke it once and walked in on me. Naked. The second time she accidently broke the rule, I wasn’t alone. She never made that mistake again.
I eat quickly.
The doorbell tears through the quiet—it’s barely sunrise, the city still yawning awake. Luis shows up right on time, like always, all sharp focus and deadly Jiu-Jitsu technique.
“Morning, Sensei,” I say.
He nods. “Long night?”
“Just tired.”Liar.
After ninety minutes of sweat and punishment, I take a cold shower and shave. I dress in a suit so sharp it could kill someone if I turned fast enough.
The metal sign readsL. Walkerin bold black letters, screwed neatly into the concrete wall. It’s simple, utilitarian—no flourish, no room for doubt.
