"Leave me alone, Xavier."
"I didn't know he'd be here. I swear to you, I had no idea?—"
"It doesn't matter." She finally stopped, whirling to face me. We were in front of an unfinished wing of the hotel—construction materials stacked under tarps, doors propped open to air out fresh paint. "None of this matters. I shouldn't have come. I should have known better than to?—"
"Than to what?" I stepped closer. "Talk to me. Please. I can't help if I don't understand what's happening."
"You can't help." She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Nobody can help. This is my mess, my past, my?—"
"Your what?" I reached for her arm. She let me take it. "Kim. What did he do to you?"
She stared at me for a long moment. Her eyes were wet, but she wasn't crying. Not yet.
"Not here," she said finally. "Somewhere private."
I looked around. The unfinished wing stretched before us—empty rooms, no staff, no one to overhear. I tried the nearest door. It swung open to reveal a hotel room in progress: furniture still wrapped in plastic, curtains not yet hung, the smell of fresh paint hanging in the air.
Kim walked past me and sat on the edge of the plastic-wrapped bed. I closed the door and joined her, leaving space between us.
"I met Cole six years ago," she said. Her voice was flat, controlled. "I was working at a hotel in the city. Front desk, night shift. He was a guest."
She paused. Took a breath.
"I had rules. I wasn't supposed to—it doesn't matter. He was charming and persistent and I was lonely and I let myself believe that maybe..." She shook her head. "We were together for two years. On and off. Mostly off. He'd disappear for weeks at a time,then show up with flowers and apologies and I'd take him back because I wanted it to work. I wanted someone to stay."
The words came faster now, tumbling out like she couldn't hold them back anymore.
"When I found out I was pregnant, I thought—" Her voice cracked. She pressed her hand to her mouth, steadying herself. "I thought he'd be happy. I thought maybe this would be the thing that made him stay. Made him real." A bitter laugh escaped her. "I was an idiot."
"Kim—"
"He told me to get rid of it." The words hung in the air between us, sharp as broken glass. "The baby. He said it wasn't the right time, that he wasn't ready, that I'd ruined everything by being careless. Then he left. Packed his bags and disappeared, and I never heard from him again until—" She gestured vaguely. "Until he walked into your office."
I couldn't speak. Couldn't move. All I could do was look at this woman—this incredible, strong, broken woman—and feel the rage building in my chest.
"Zoe doesn't know." Kim's voice was barely above a whisper now. "She's never asked about her father. I think she's afraid of the answer. And I'm afraid to give it to her because what do I say? Your dad didn't want you? Your dad told me to?—"
She broke off, pressing her palms to her eyes.
I reached out. Touched her cheek, gently turning her face toward me.
"I'm not him," I said. "You know that, right?"
Her eyes met mine. Wet. Wounded. But something else was there, too—hope, maybe, fragile and terrified.
"I know," she whispered.
I kissed her.
Not like before. Not desperate or hungry or testing boundaries. This kiss was soft. Careful. A promise more than a demand.
She kissed me back.
Her hands came up to grip my shirt, pulling me closer. The kiss deepened, her lips parting under mine, and suddenly, soft and careful wasn't enough. I needed more. I needed everything.
I pulled back, breathing hard. "I should stop."
"Why?"
