I wasn’t.
Because the truth was, I’d been fucking my hand for three years, imagining her mouth. The way she begged, her legs shaking, her eyes glossy, the way she whispered daddy when she came.
And I was already building a new image now.
How she looked tonight. Her lips were slightly pinker than usual, like she’d bitten them. The way the dress clung in all the places I used to hold.
I was going to take this image home. To the penthouse. To the shower.
Because it was all I had. And it was enough to ruin me.
“Did you eat?” I asked, breaking the silence as I nodded toward her untouched plate.
“No,”
“So they ordered for you,”
Her head tilted slightly. “What?”
“You didn’t pick that dish.” I nodded toward it again. “You hate bouillabaisse.”
Her eyes went sharp again. And I fucking knew I was right.
She hadn’t picked the meal. Someone else had ordered it for her. Probably one of the heirs she’d been seated with before I had them removed. Polished dynasty boy who thought he’d win her with a seafood stew and a last name worth hyphenating.
She didn’t answer.
So I added, “You used to say it smelled like a dying aquarium.”
She reached for her wine glass. “People change.”
There it was.
The wall, rebuilt.
The temperature dropped.
And I watched her retreat into the version of herself they’d trained. The girl who could survive dynasty rooms by pretending not to feel anything at all.
“I think you should go,” she said softly.
Not cruel. Just… measured. Like she’d rehearsed it in her head before saying it out loud.
She watched me, waiting to see if I’d obey. If I’d finally do the polite thing.
I leaned back in my chair instead. Hooked my arm over the backrest. Let my legs spread just a little wider beneath the table—casual, like I owned the fucking place. Technically we did, we owned the building and if she liked eating here, I’d make sure we own the restaurant.
“I’ve heard that before,” I said.
I wasn’t going any where. Because if five minutes was all I could have, I’d take every second like it was oxygen.
“Why now, Bastion?” she asked, her grip tightened on the glass. “It’s been three years.”
“Three years, two months, and fourteen days,” I said.
She nodded. Slowly. “That’s a long time to leave a woman on read.”
Fuck.
