I pressed my palm flat against my grandmother’s photograph, the glass cool beneath my fingers.
She’s still here. She’s still fighting.
Tomorrow I would visit her. Right now, I just had to unpack.
I could do that. I was good at doing things.
The suitcase opened easily, and I moved through the apartment with purpose. Clothes in the closet. Toiletries in the bathroom. Laptop on the small desk by the window. My favorite mug in the cabinet above the coffee maker. Running shoes by the door.
I had a system. Systems were good. It meant I didn’t have to think about anything except the next task.
I was reaching for a glass in the upper cabinet when I saw it.
A magazine. Sitting on the kitchen counter like it had been waiting for me.
California Business Monthly.Glossy cover, thick pages, the kind of publication that featured men in expensive suits talking about acquisitions and profit margins. I almost ignored it. Almost pushed it aside and kept unpacking, went about my evening like a normal person who didn’t let inanimate objects ruin her night.
Then I saw the face on the cover.
My hand stopped mid-reach. My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I could feel it in my throat.
Jack Specter stared up at me from the glossy paper.
Thirty-three now, according to the text beside his photograph. I could have told them that without reading it. His sandy hair was shorter than I remembered, styled in that effortless way that made him look every bit like what he was.
Successful.
His jaw had gotten sharper. More defined. He wore a charcoal suit that fit like it had been stitched onto his body by someone who took personal offense at the concept of a wrinkle.
And those eyes. Those blue eyes stared out from the page like they were issuing a challenge.
Go ahead,they seemed to say.Try to forget me.
The smile was fake. I spotted it immediately—the way you spot a forgery when you know the original too well. This was Jack Specter, CEO of Specter Capital. Heir to a fortune. Face of the family empire. This was the mask he wore for the world.
I knew the real one. The way his mouth curved when something genuinely amused him. How his eyes crinkled at the corners, the sound of his laugh—low and warm—the way he used to look at me like I was the only interesting thing in any room.
Used to.
A redhead clung to his arm in the photograph. Tall. Elegant. Wearing a dress that flaunted her curves. She had the kind of cheekbones that belonged on magazine covers, which made sense, because here she was on one. They looked perfect together.
My fingers had curled around the edge of the counter without my permission.
This was ridiculous. It had been seven years since I walked away from him. I had built a whole life that had nothing to do with Jack Specter and his blue eyes and his careless cruelty.
I shouldn’t still feel like this. I shouldn’t still feel anything at all.
“Specter Capital CEO Discusses Expansion Plans,”the headline read. Underneath: “Jack Specter on ambition, legacy, and what’s next for the family empire.”
I flipped the magazine face-down. The slap of paper against laminate was deeply satisfying.
Then I picked it up again.
Then I put it down.
Then I picked it up and crumpled his stupid, aggressively symmetrical face into a ball, throwing it into the trash with enough force to make the whole can wobble.
Better. Much better.
