By the time the doors finally opened, I was gasping as though I'd been underwater too long. I stumbled out of the building, ignoring the curious glances of strangers. My chest still burned with the ghost of his closeness.
I hurried home, praying to every deity I didn't believe in that the apartment was empty. Blessedly, it was. I tossed my bag onto the floor and collapsed onto the couch, curling into myself as if I could fold into nothingness. And then the tears came. I buried my face in the cushions, muffling the sobs that ripped out of me.
I thought I had outgrown this. I thought I'd finally shed the skin of the scared little girl he once tormented. I thought the years of building myself up, brick by brick, degree by degree, paycheck by paycheck, had made me unshakable. Turns out, I hadn't outgrown it at all. Turns out, standing in front of him, I was still that girl.
*****
Richard's POV
I sat at my desk, staring at the very spot on the carpet where she had stood not ten minutes ago. Her perfume still lingered in the air, infuriatingly distracting. She hadn't shown it outright, but I could sense it in the tremor of her voice, in the way her eyes had shimmered for just a second before she shoved past me. I had hurt her. And for the first time in years, I felt…off. Disoriented, as though someone had cracked open the armor I'd spent a lifetime forging. The last time I had felt even remotely like this was back in boarding school, back when I was still Richard-the-boy, not Richard Numero.
In all honesty, I had expected a different reaction. In fact, I had counted on it. I thought she would grit her teeth, toss back some sarcastic jab, and finally stop calling me Junior. That name… damn it, the way it rolled off her tongue—it rattled me. Not just because it belittled me in front of the empire I carried on my shoulders, but because it sounded so awfully familiar. Too familiar. The way Benny used to say it. I don't know whether I want to crush it out of her… or kiss it off her lips.
Maybe getting her fired wasn't the right approach. A miscalculation. But what else was I supposed to do? She would have had to quit sooner or later. The woman is supposed to marry me, to carry the Numero name. That's not compatible with answering to a petty manager in some little office. I told myself I did her a favor—elevated her, removed a distraction—but the truth gnaws at me. The truth is that she pressed all my wrong buttons at once, the way only she can, and I retaliated.
I rubbed my temples, trying to think, but the more I replayed her voice—quivering when she said get off me—the tighter the knot in my chest pulled. I am not a man who apologizes. I am not a man who bends. My board, my rivals, none of them have ever received an apology from me. But with her? With her I found myself pacing my office like some lovesick fool, muttering rehearsed lines that sounded ridiculous the moment they left my mouth. I didn't mean to hurt you. No, too weak. You misunderstood me. No, too manipulative. I'm sorry. God, pathetic.
What if she changed her mind about the marriage? The thought hit harder than I wanted to admit. My first instinct was anger—how dare she walk out on a Numero? But beneath that, an unease I couldn't shake. If she walked away, if she said no, if she left—I wouldn't just be losing an arrangement. I would be losing her. The only person in years who had dared look me in the eye and throw my name back at me like a challenge.
I stopped pacing and braced my hands against the edge of my desk, staring down at my reflection in the glossy surface. I didn't recognize the man staring back at me. He looked… conflicted. That was dangerous. I had to fix this, had to do damage control, but I couldn't summon the right weapon for this battlefield.
Still, one thing was clear. I couldn't let this stand. Because losing her was suddenly not an option I was willing to entertain.
An hour later, I found myself still thinking about what I could do. Which, if you knew me, was pathetic. Normally, problems were things I solved—hostile takeovers, stubborn CEOs who thought they could negotiate against me. I never worried. Yet here I was, spinning in my own office like a restless teenager after a failed date. Nita wasn't the type I could appease with a fancy bag or a trip to Paris. I knew that instinctively. She wasn't shallow like most of the women who practically tripped over themselves to impress me. Hell, half the women I'd been with would've sold their souls for the glint of a Numero credit card. But her? The strangest thing was…she wasn't even attracted to me. Not in the usual way. She looked at me like I was an annoying obligation rather than a prize. Strange, isn't it? Almost insulting. I actually caught myself wondering if she'd been dropped on her head as a baby—because what sane woman wouldn't want me?
My desk phone rang, slicing through my train of thought. I picked up, short on patience.
"Mr. Numero?" My assistant's voice floated through the receiver.
"What?" I snapped, sharper than I intended. But then again, wasn't that my default?
"There's a report you need to—"
"Not now…" I cut her off, running a hand down my face.
"But it's urgent."
"Tell Sam to deal with it. Postpone all appointments."
"Yes, sir."
I slammed the phone back into the receiver, I grabbed my car keys. Screw it. How hard could apologies be? People apologized to me every damn day. And when they did, I either forgave them—or ruined them. Surely, I could manage one lousy "sorry" to the woman who was about to carry my last name for the next twelve months.