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Then she opens the door wider.

That's it.

No declaration.

No forgiveness.

No promise that I've somehow managed to fix what I broke.

She simply turns and walks back into her apartment.

Leaving the door open behind her.

For me.

My chest tightens so fucking hard it almost hurts.

I follow.

Of course I do.

Like a lovesick fool.

Which is exactly what I am.

Chapter 30

Layla

The soup is annoyingly good.

Mitchell Knight probably doesn't know how to open a can of soup without consulting an acquisition team, but apparently his household can produce homemade chicken soup worthy of curing the plague.

“Carl made this, didn't he?”

Mitchell looks offended.

“I supervised.”

I snort. Big mistake. My nose immediately protests, and I reach for a tissue.

“That's not cooking.”

“I provided executive oversight.”

“You stood in the kitchen and annoyed him.”

“That's an unnecessarily hostile interpretation of events.”

I laugh. Then cough. Then I glare at him because somehow both are his fault.

“Cold medicine,” he says.

“Yes, please.”

I don't even argue. That's how he knows I'm actually sick.

Normally, I would probably make some comment about accepting unidentified pharmaceuticals from billionaire media moguls with control issues.