Heat flickers low in my belly, immediate and unwanted.
Hearing his pet name for me, something I haven’t heard since he left, hits me hard. I let out a small gasp.
I quickly harden my expression and glare up at him. “Don’t call me that.”
His voice drops, rougher. “We’re going to have plenty of time to talk now.”
“The hell we are,” I say through my teeth.
He doesn’t argue. He just watches me like he’s already memorized every escape route I might take.
Scott
* * *
One king bed. One couch.
That’s the first thing I register when the bedroom door shuts behind us.
The room is too intimate for strangers and too small for history like ours. White walls. Open beams. Gauzy curtains lifting in the ocean breeze. The bed sits centered beneath a slow-turning fan, an soft ivory comforter over crisp sheets as though deliberately designed to encourage something to happen.
It won’t. Not like that.
Lyla steps inside without looking at me. Chin high. Spine straight. Every inch of her posture says she’s bracing for negotiation, not proximity.
The cameras in the corners blink red.
I clock every angle automatically. Lens height. Microphone placement. Window sightlines. Blind spots. Old habits. Old training. My body doesn’t know how not to assess threat.
She moves toward the dresser and sets her bag down with controlled precision. Not a single wasted motion. The same woman who can rebuild a torn wedding gown under pressure and make it look effortless.
“Say it,” she says, still facing away from me.
Her voice is level. That’s how I know she’s furious.
“Say what?”
“That you planned this.” She turns slowly. Her eyes are sharp, wounded beneath them. “That you knew and decided ambushing me on television was the best way to start a conversation.”
I shut the door fully and lean back against it, giving her space. Giving her the illusion of control.
“I knew,” I say. There’s no point in softening that. “But it’s not like I planned the room assignment.”
A humorless laugh escapes her. “That’s supposed to make it better?”
“No.” I hold her gaze. “It’s supposed to be honest.”
Her mouth parts like she didn’t expect the answer. I shouldn’t notice. I do anyway.
God, she’s beautiful.
Not the way she was at eighteen. Not soft and bright-eyed, looking at me like I hung the damn moon. This version of her is sharpened. Controlled. Her hair falls over one shoulder in deliberate waves. Her sundress skims her waist and clings to curves that didn’t exist back then. Blood immediately rushes south at the sight.
Focus.
“You don’t decide what I deserve or get to dictate when I’m ready to hear anything.”
“I know.”
