Something warm and terrifying unfurled in my chest.
Oh no,I thought, my heart stumbling over its own rhythm.I'm falling for him.
The realization should have scared me. Maybe it did. But sitting there on the floor, our hands still touching, watching Leo play with complete joy and security, I couldn't make myself pull away.
Not from this moment. Not from this feeling.
Not from him.
CHAPTER 21
Cassian
Three days had passed since that morning.
Three days since I'd sat on the floor building trains with my son, while Isla looked at me like I was someone worth loving. Since we'd held hands over Leo's sleeping body after his nightmare. Since I'd said "I could get used to this" and meant it with every fiber of my being.
Three days since I'd felt hope—real, dangerous hope—and then spent every moment since trying to kill it.
I stood on the balcony, the October night air cold against my face, watching the city lights blur below. A glass of scotch sat untouched on the railing. I'd poured it an hour ago, but couldn't bring myself to drink it. Couldn't do anything but stand here and hate myself for what I was doing.
For what I'd been doing for three days straight.
Avoiding breakfast. Working late. Manufacturing excuses to stay away from the penthouse until after Leo was asleep. Creating careful, deliberate distance between myself and the woman who'd started to make me believe in impossible things.
Behind me, the penthouse was quiet. Leo had finally fallen asleep after asking for the fourth night in a row why Daddy wasn't there for dinner. Why I didn't play trains anymore. Why everything felt different.
Because his father was a coward. That was why.
The balcony door slid open behind me. I didn't turn, already knowing it was Isla by the soft sound of her footsteps, the subtle shift in the air.
"Can't sleep?" she asked, coming to stand beside me at the railing. But she didn't touch me. Didn't reach for my hand like she would have four days ago.
"Seems to be a pattern lately." I finally picked up the scotch, swirling it without drinking. "You?"
"Hard to sleep when you're trying to figure out what you did wrong." Her voice was tight, controlled. "When you're trying to understand why the man who held your hand three days ago now won't even look at you."
I forced myself to meet her eyes. She looked exhausted—dark circles, tension in her jaw, the careful blankness of someone trying not to break.
"You didn't do anything wrong," I said.
"Then why does it feel like I'm being punished?" She wrapped her arms around herself. "Leo asked me today if you're mad at him. If he did something wrong. Because his father stopped eating breakfast with us. Stopped playing after dinner. Started coming home after he's asleep."
Guilt twisted in my gut, sharp and vicious. "I've been busy. The business—"
"Bullshit." The word cracked between us. "Three days ago, you made pancakes with us. You sat on the floor and built train tracks. You held my hand and said you could get used to mornings like that." Tears shone in her eyes. "What happened? What changed?"
Everything. Nothing. I'd realized I was falling and tried to stop myself before I hit the ground.
"Nothing changed," I lied.
"Don't do that." Fire flashed in her expression. "Don't lie to me. Not after everything. I deserve better than that."
She was right. She deserved so much better than what I was giving her.
"I realized something," I said finally, the words coming out harshly. "That morning—the pancakes, the trains, the hand-holding—it felt real. It felt like we were a family. And that terrified me."
Understanding dawned on her face. "So you ran away."
