Martin’s phone buzzed the screen lighting up with Valentine’s na. He stared at it for two rings, thumb hovering over the decline button. Then he answered, voice flat.
"Father."
"Martin." Valentine’s tone was clipped, efficient, the sa voice he used to close deals. "The official invitation for the engagent party went out this morning. Katherine’s father, Victor Thorne, is calling you personally in the next few minutes. He wants to confirm you’ll be there. Saturday night. The Thorne estate. Black tie. No excuses."
Martin leaned back in his chair, staring at the dark ceiling of his office. The rain from last night had left streaks on the floor-to-ceiling windows, distorting the city below.
"I already told you," he said quietly. "I’m not going."
"You will go," Valentine replied. "Victor is flying in from London specifically for this. The rger announcent is tied to the engagent. If you back out now, the distribution rights collapse, the board loses confidence, and your position becos... untenable."
Martin closed his eyes.
"You’re using my job as leverage."
"I’m using reality as leverage," Valentine said. The Thorne family expects a united front. ’’
The line beeped—another call waiting.
Victor Thorne.
Martin exhaled through his nose.
He hung up on his father.
The phone rang again imdiately.
Victor Thorne.
Martin answered.
"Victor."
"Martin." Victor’s voice was warm, polished, the kind of warmth that had closed more deals than most people saw in a lifeti. "I trust Valentine delivered the good news. The engagent party this Saturday. Katherine is thrilled. The family is thrilled. The board is thrilled. We’re all counting on you to make it official."
Martin stared at the rain-streaked window.
"I haven’t agreed to anything."
Victor laughed—light, confident, as though Martin had told a joke.
"Of course you have. The contracts are drafted. The rings are sized. The rger papers are ready for your signature the mont you put the ring on her finger. This isn’t a question of if, Martin. It’s a question of when. And when is Saturday."
Martin’s grip tightened on the phone.
"I’m not—"
"Think of the future," Victor cut in smoothly. "Your future. The company’s future. Katherine’s future. You’ve known her since you were children. She’s perfect for you. Perfect for Voss Éclat. Perfect for the Mole na. Don’t throw away decades of planning because of... sentint."
Martin’s jaw clenched.
"I’ll consider it."
Victor’s voice hardened just enough to be noticeable.
"Consider carefully. The rger is on the table. Walk away from Katherine, and it walks away from you. And so does everything else."
The call ended.
Martin stared at the blank screen.
He felt the walls closing in again—tighter this ti, colder.
He stood.
Walked to the glass railing.
Looked down on the floor and there she was.
Still at her desk, head bent over her screen, fingers moving steadily. She looked small from up here. Fragile. But determined. She hadn’t looked up once today—not toward the railing, not toward his office, not toward anything that might remind her he existed.
But he rembered the way she’d looked at him last night—shocked, hurt, furious—when he’d said *be my lover*.
Until the clock ticked past five and the floor began to empty.
Fiona kept working.
Martin kept watching.
Until the lights dimd and she finally packed her bag.
She stood.
Looked toward his office—dark, empty, like always today.
Her shoulders sagged—just a fraction.
Then she walked to the elevators.
Martin watched her go.
He felt the ache in his chest sharpen into sothing knife-like.
He turned away.
Went back to his office.
Closed the door.
Sat in the dark.
And stared at nothing.
Down on 38, Fiona walked to the elevators alone.
She pressed the down button.
Doors opened.
Empty.
She stepped inside.
Pressed ground.
Leaned against the wall as the elevator descended.
She stared at her reflection in the mirrored panels—eyes red-rimd, cheeks flushed, mouth pressed into a thin line. She looked exhausted. She looked heartbroken. She looked like a woman who had spent the entire day pretending she wasn’t falling apart.
The elevator dinged.
Lobby.
She walked out.
**The Billionaire’s Secret Bump**
**Chapter 27: Dinner with the Past**
Fiona stood outside the Obsidian Spire for a long mont after clocking out, hood up against the drizzle, bag heavy on her shoulder. The thought of going ho made her stomach twist. The apartnt would be dark and quiet—Elara still away dealing with the burst pipe ergency at her flower shop. No soft music, no chamomile tea, no gentle "sweetheart?" from the kitchen. Just silence, and her own thoughts echoing off the walls.
And if she went to Lena’s instead... Lena would listen, then sigh, then say exactly what Fiona already knew: *You opened the door. You let him in. You let him fuck you. And then you let him ask you to be his side piece. You’re smarter than this, Fi. Why do you keep doing this to yourself?*
She couldn’t handle that tonight. Not the judgnt. Not the pity. Not even the love.
She just needed air.
Needed noise that wasn’t her own heartbeat.
Needed food that wasn’t eaten alone on a couch.
She turned left instead of right, walking toward the small cluster of restaurants near the bayfront pronade. The rain was light enough to ignore, the streets still busy with after-work crowds. She picked a mid-range Italian place she’d passed a hundred tis but never tried—warm lights in the windows, the sll of garlic and fresh bread drifting out every ti soone opened the door.
She stepped inside.
The hostess smiled. "Table for one?"
Fiona nodded. "Sowhere quiet, please."
The woman led her to a small corner booth near the back—half-hidden by a wooden partition, candle flickering on the table. Perfect. Fiona slid in, dropped her bag beside her, and opened the nu without really reading it.
She was halfway through deciding between pasta primavera and risotto when a familiar voice spoke from behind her.
"Fiona Flare? No way."
She froze.
Turned slowly.
Standing there—tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair still a little too long like it had been in high school—was Caleb Reed.
Her old crush.
The boy who’d sat behind her in English Lit, who’d passed her notes folded into tiny stars, who’d asked her to prom in the parking lot with a rose and a nervous grin. The boy she’d said no to because she was already dating Marcus by then. The boy who’d smiled anyway, said "maybe next ti," and never made her feel small for it.
He looked older now—sharper jaw, faint lines at the corners of his eyes—but the smile was the sa. Warm. Surprised. Kind.
"Caleb?" Her voice ca out softer than she ant.
"In the flesh." He laughed quietly. "Can I...?" He gestured to the empty seat across from her.
Fiona hesitated.
Then nodded.
He slid in, setting his own takeout bag on the table like he’d been planning to eat alone too.
"You look..." He paused, searching her face. "Tired. And beautiful. Sa as always."
She managed a small, tired laugh. "You always were good at complints."
"Still am." He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I moved back to the city six months ago. Opened a small architecture firm downtown. Never thought I’d run into you in a place like this."
Fiona looked down at her hands. "I work nearby. Voss Éclat."
His brows lifted. "The big beauty empire? Damn. You always did have the brains."
She shrugged. "It’s just a job."
He studied her for a mont—really studied her.
"You okay, Fi?"
The old nickna hit her like a wave.
No one had called her Fi since high school.
She felt her eyes sting again.
She shook her head. "Not really."
Caleb didn’t push. He just waited.
The waiter ca. Fiona ordered the risotto. Caleb added a glass of red for himself and a sparkling water for her without asking.
When the waiter left, Caleb leaned back.
"Want to talk about it? Or want to distract you with terrible high-school stories until you forget whatever’s making you cry in a restaurant booth?"
Fiona laughed—wet, surprised.
"Distract ."
He grinned.
"Rember when I tried to ask you to prom with that rose and the note in your locker? I spent three hours writing it. Folded it into one of those origami stars I learned from YouTube. Took six tries to get it right. And when you opened it, you just stared at like I’d grown a second head."
"I rember," she said softly. "I felt awful saying no."
"You were dating Marcus. You weren’t awful. You were honest." He shrugged. "I survived. Moved on. Mostly."
She looked at him—really looked.
He was still kind.
Still steady.
Still the boy who’d never made her feel small.
The waiter brought their food.
Caleb raised his glass.
"To old friends who show up when you need them."
Fiona clinked her water against his wine.
"To old friends," she whispered.
They ate in comfortable silence for a while.
Then Caleb set his fork down.
"You don’t have to tell what’s wrong," he said. "But if you do... I’m here. No judgnt. No expectations.
She looked at him really looked .
For the first ti in weeks
She didn’t feel completely alone.
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