The park still clung to silence after Kierra walked away, her steps echoing faintly against the cracked pavement. Logan stood rooted to the spot, watching her disappear into the blur of flickering streetlamps. His hand—still tingling from the brush of her skin—slowly curled into a fist at his side.
He had no right to feel like this. Not with her. Not with anyone. But the ache she left behind was undeniable, raw in a way that unsettled him.
The world he inhabited—towering boardrooms, political dinners, million-dollar contracts—suddenly felt hollow compared to the fleeting seconds of honesty in her eyes.
When his driver finally pulled up to the park's edge, Logan slipped into the back seat without a word. The leather interior smelled faintly of cigar smoke and polish, familiar, grounding. But his thoughts remained with her.
"Home, sir?" the driver asked.
Logan hesitated. Home. The word sat bitter in his chest. "Yes," he said finally, his voice even.
As the car rolled through the glowing city, he stared out the tinted glass, replaying her whisper—We can't do this. He had agreed. He had meant it. And yet, the more he told himself it was over, the more his body betrayed him, every nerve alive with the memory of her nearness.
Kierra let herself into her apartment with trembling fingers. The space felt colder than usual, the shadows longer. She dropped her bag on the floor and pressed her back against the door, as though bracing herself against something unseen.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She flinched, pulling it out quickly.
Jamie. Did you change your mind about drinks?
She stared at the message, guilt rising sharp and hot in her throat. Jamie was safe. Ordinary. He represented the kind of uncomplicated life she should want. But she couldn't force her thoughts away from the man she had just left standing by a broken fountain.
Her reply was short. Not tonight. Sorry.
She set the phone aside and sank into bed, though sleep refused to come. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the heat of Logan's gaze, heard the low rasp of his voice saying her name like it was a secret he wanted to keep.
Her conscience warned her this was the precipice of something dangerous. But her heart whispered another truth—she had already stepped too close to the edge.
The next morning, Logan sat at the head of a long mahogany table, papers neatly stacked before him, his assistant speaking about quarterly projections. The room was filled with sharp suits, eager voices, and the constant hum of ambition.
But Logan heard none of it. His gaze lingered on the window behind the boardroom, the skyline cutting across a pale sky.
"Mr. Hayes?" his assistant prompted.
Logan blinked, pulling himself back. "Continue," he said, his tone clipped.
He forced himself to focus, to channel the sharp precision that had built his empire. But beneath the surface, his mind drifted, circling back to her. A barista. A woman with no ties to his world, who somehow had him unraveling thread by thread.
The meeting ended, and the boardroom emptied. Logan remained seated, his jaw tight, his thoughts darker. He was a man known for control—for never letting weakness show. But desire was a weakness, and Kierra Jade had found her way into it.
His phone buzzed. Veronica again. Dinner tonight. Don't forget.
He typed a reply but didn't send it. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, staring at the screen, the weight of choices pressing heavy.
Kierra's day at the café blurred in a haze of noise and movement. Orders shouted, machines hissing, the bitter aroma of coffee steeping in the air. She smiled when she needed to, nodded when customers spoke, but her mind was elsewhere.
Twice, she thought she saw him walk in, and her heart had stumbled, only to sink when it was just another stranger in a suit.
"You okay?" Jamie asked during the lull between rushes, his mop of hair falling into his eyes.
"Fine," she lied, forcing a smile.
He grinned faintly. "If you say so. But if I find out some guy's giving you trouble, I'll come down on him."
Kierra laughed, the sound brittle. Jamie didn't know it, but the trouble she was in wasn't the kind fists could solve.
When her shift ended, she lingered by the counter, wiping it down slowly though it didn't need it. Part of her hoped—stupidly—that Logan would appear again. He didn't.
By the time she locked the door and stepped into the fading evening light, her chest ached with the weight of wanting something she couldn't name aloud.
That night, Logan attended dinner with Veronica and the Whitmores. Crystal glasses clinked, conversation sparkled with rehearsed charm, and Veronica shone in a gown of deep sapphire, every movement graceful, calculated.
To anyone watching, Logan was the perfect husband— attentive, polished, powerful. But beneath the surface, his thoughts betrayed him.
When Veronica placed a manicured hand on his arm, he didn't flinch. But he felt nothing. Not the spark, not the fire that Kierra's briefest touch had ignited.
As the evening dragged on, his phone burned in his pocket, an unspoken temptation. When the driver finally took them home, Veronica retired upstairs without a word, leaving him in the study.
Logan poured a glass of whiskey and stared out at the city lights. The weight of his life pressed down on him—the expectations, the reputation, the empire. And yet all he could think of was her.
The decision formed before he realized he'd made it. He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over her name.
He shouldn't.
He did.
There's a charity gala this weekend. Be there. I want you there.
He hit send, the message slicing through the silence like a blade.
As the screen dimmed, Logan exhaled slowly, knowing the fracture had already formed. The life he had built, the control he had held—everything was beginning to crack.
And at the center of it was her.