Back inside the suite, he cupped my face gently.
“I’ve been living with guilt for years,” he admitted. “And I don’t know how to let someone new matter to me.”
“Guilt?” I whispered. “You think his death was your fault?”
“If I promise to tell you everything,” he said softly, “can I answer that later?”
I nodded.
He kissed me then—not with urgency, not with dominance, but with something that felt dangerously close to surrender.
When he lifted me against the bay window, the glass cool against my back, he didn’t rush this time. His hands traced the curve of my thighs before lifting them around his waist, and when he entered me, it wasn’t with force—it was deliberate, slow, as if he needed to feel every inch of me and make sure I felt him just as clearly.
“Keep your eyes open for me,” he murmured, and I obliged as he took me again and again.
The next time I awoke, I was lying against him in an oversized tub, my muscles trembling and my throat raw.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this quiet,” he said softly, brushing his lips along my shoulder.
I couldn’t find words.
He washed me slowly, thoughtfully, as though he was memorizing the shape of me.
“I haven’t forgotten what I promised to tell you,” he said.
He turned me to face him in the water.
“My best friend’s name was Austin,” he said. “We started out building apps for companies and selling them back right after college. Over time, that became his specialty, while buying companies and making billions became mine…”
“One night he came up with a brilliant idea since he loved coffee but also hated waiting in line. He pitched Starbucks on a mobile-ordering platform, long before they ever had one.”
I went still.
“He and Ciara spent months perfecting it, and Starbucks promised they would buy it when it was finished.”
His voice shifted.
“Two weeks before the deal could be finalized, they demanded that he fly to Seattle for a last-minute meeting,” he said. “He asked if it could wait until morning or afternoon, but they refused. They needed him now.”
“All the flights were booked, so I arranged for him to take a private plane,” he said. “I reminded him not to back down from any parts of the deal, and I told him goodbye…”
The water felt colder.
“It crashed.” He swallowed. “Two minutes after takeoff.”
My chest tightened.
“Ciara’s last words to him were goodbye, too,” he said. “It’s…”
He didn’t finish that sentence.
“Before we buried him, Starbucks sent their condolences via a fucking email. Then they launched his app—the exact versionthat he made without any changes—without paying Ciara a dime or honoring the contract.”
“I…” I wrapped my arms around him. “I’m so sorry.”
“I took his death out on all the companies I owned here.” He paused. “That’s technically where the Cross Effect came from. Employees were just numbers, businesses became leverage, and the press was just an annoying means that never even gave him a proper public obituary.”
Silence settled between us again.
