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“Wow. Those hotels are stunning. I’m staying at one of them right now, actually.” My brows lift slightly. “I see I’ve underestimated the scope of this campaign.”

“That’s rare. People usually overestimate,” he says, smirking playfully. A little amused, a little intrigued.

Our waiter reappears, and Theo insists I try the truffle risotto. So I do.

The wine is perfectly paired, the pace of the service effortless. Luxury in its purest form. The kind that says “we could control time here.”

We talk business.

He’s smart. Sharp. His hotel and restaurant empire spans across Europe and is growing fast. He wants a marketing strategy that matches the scale of his ambition—edgy, elegant, disruptive.

I listen. Offer ideas. Push boundaries. And he likes that.

His gaze lingers on me between the conversations, assessing. Calculating.

I’m used to that. Men who try to figure out how much space they’re allowed to take.

But when his eyes flick to my left hand—and he sees the rings—I catch the subtle shift in his expression. He says nothing. Doesn’t ask. Just leans back, relaxed, like he’s cataloging the information and choosing not to touch it.

Smart.

Because whatever charm he exudes—and there’s plenty—it slides off me without leaving a trace.

He may be gorgeous. Magnetic, even.

But he’s not Nick.

No one ever will be.

Still, I appreciate his professionalism. His restraint. The way he keeps the energy light, even playful, without ever crossing a line.

When the dessert arrives—something small and artfully constructed with gold leaf and raspberry mousse—he lifts his glass slightly.

“To our collaboration,” he says smoothly.

I smile and click mine against his. “And bold ideas.”

As we stand to leave, he hands me a sleek, dark card with his personal number embossed at the bottom.

“There’s a club opening on Friday,” he says. “Mayfair. Private event. Just the right people. If you’re still in town, you should come.”

I hesitate for a moment, then slip the card into my bag. “I’ll think about it.”

He gives me one last smile—confident but respectful—and then disappears into the crowd with the ease of someone who always knows exactly where he’s going.

I step outside into the bright London afternoon, heels clicking on the stone as I make my way back to the car.

The man is… impressive.

But I don’t feel anything. And that tells me everything I need to know.

Fuck you, Nickolas Hardy!

FORTY-THREE

Nick

It’s been five days.