I pressed myself against the door, trying to ignore how my body responded to his proximity. "And what reason would that be?"
"Because there's something between us that doesn't make sense." His hand came up to my face, thumb brushing my cheek. "Something familiar."
My heart pounded against my ribs. Did he remember? Had something triggered his memory?
"I need to go," I repeated, more firmly this time.
He studied me for a long moment, then stepped back. "I'll have a car brought around."
"No need. I'll take a cab."
A flash of irritation crossed his face. "It's not a request, Isla."
The way he said my name—commanding, possessive—sent a shiver down my spine. I'd heard that tone before, in a hotel room with the Miami skyline spread out below us.
"Fine."
He disappeared into a room off the hallway, returning moments later with something small and metallic. "A key," he said, pressing it into my palm. "To the penthouse."
I stared at the key, its weight feeling significant. "Cassian, Ican't—"
"In case you need anything." His thumb brushed over my knuckles. "Or in case you decide to stop running."
I closed my fingers around it, the metal warming in my palm. This was more than a key. This was an invitation. A claim.
"I should go," I whispered.
"You should," he agreed. "But keep the key."
Our fingers touched, and for a second, I thought he might pull me back into his arms. Instead, he stepped away, maintaining that careful distance.
"The car will be waiting downstairs."
It was a dismissal. I nodded once and slipped out the door.
In the elevator, I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes, trying to slow my racing heart. What had I done? Everything I'd worked for—the careful distance, the professional boundaries—destroyed in one moment of weakness.
I made it outside, and I pulled my coat tighter around myself—more from nerves than the October chill.
The sleek black car waited as promised. The driver didn't speak as we pulled away from Cassian's building, which I was grateful for. I watched the city pass by through tinted windows, the October morning already busy with weekend joggers and dog walkers. I was retracing the path we'd taken last night—except this time, alone.
Just like before.
Three years ago, I'd left that hotel room with my heart in pieces, convinced I'd made a connection with someone who felt the same spark I did. But I'd woken up to sunlight streaming through the curtains and empty sheets beside me. Antonio was already gone. No note. No number. No goodbye.
We'd used fake names—never exchanged real contact information. It was supposed to be one perfect night with no complications.
Then I discovered I was pregnant a month later, and "no complications" became laughable. I'd tried everything to find "Antonio"—searched hotel records, bribed staff, even hired a private investigator. Then, a lucky break. I discovered the list of conference attendees and looked up each one until I saw Antonio. Cassian Barone. That changed everything.
By the time I made it back to my apartment, the autumn sun had broken through the morning clouds, painting Prospect Park in shades of gold and crimson. Late October in Brooklyn—my favorite time of year, though this year it felt heavy with secrets and complications.
The car stopped in front of my apartment building. I thanked the driver and hurried inside, taking the stairs rather than waiting for the ancient elevator. My feet ached in last night's heels, and I was painfully aware of how I must look—the walk of shame personified.
I knocked softly on Maya's door. She opened it almost immediately, still in her pajamas, coffee mug in hand.
"Well, well," she said, eyebrows raised. "Someone had a late night."
"Maya, please—"
