Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
“I did have a headache.”
“Mmm.” He doesn’t blink. “And now you look like you haven’t slept, you’re jumping at shadows, and you’ve got that tight thing happening around your eyes that you get when you’re stressed.”
Damn him and his observation skills. “Maybe I just don’t like being interrogated before lunch.”
“This isn’t an interrogation.” His voice softens. “This is me being worried about you.”
I set down my tools because my hands aren’t steady enough to hold them anyway. Knox is watching me like he wants to wrap me in bubble wrap and hide me somewhere no one can find me. And I want to tell him everything. The diamond, the theft, the five years of looking over my shoulder. The ex-boyfriend who just showed up like a ghost from a past I’ve tried so hard to bury.
But Knox isn’t just a security expert with a protective streak. He’s former military, law enforcement adjacent, a man who has spent his career on the right side of the law. If he finds out what I used to be, what I used to do, he won’t just be disappointed. He might feel obligated to do something about it.
Would he still look at me like this if he knew? Would he still want to bring me soup when I’m sick, still park outside my building at night?
“I’m fine,” I say. “Really. Just a rough night.”
He studies me for another long moment. Knox isn’t stupid. He knows I’m holding something back.
But instead of pushing, he just nods. “Okay. But you know where to find me if that changes.”
“I know.”
He glances around the studio, doing an actual security sweep now, checking windows and exits and blind spots. Professional Knox, doing his job. When he finishes, he pauses by the door.
“Dinner,” he says. His eyes hold mine, steel-gray and absolutely certain. “Tonight. My place, like we planned.”
“Knox—”
“Whatever’s going on with you, you don’t have to face it alone.” His shoulders square. “Let me in, Hailey. Even if you can’t tell me everything, let me be there.”
I look at him standing in the doorway. This man who’s been watching over me for months. Who tracked me through Bryant Park and never once made me feel afraid. Who bought me earrings at a Christmas market and kissed me on my front steps and offered to bring me soup for a fake headache. He’s offering me everything I thought I wanted. A partner. Someone to lean on. A future that doesn’t involve running.
This man equals stability.
Protection.
Someone who doesn’t run away, but instead does the opposite. He’ll charge full speed toward me. I know this. My gut knows this.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Tonight.”
His shoulders drop, just slightly. Like he’d been bracing for rejection.
“Seven o’clock. I’ll text you the address.”
Then he’s gone, and I’m left staring at the door, too aware of the photograph in my pocket.
The next few hours pass in a blur of busywork. I fix the earring backs. I polish a set of silver bangles. I organize the supply closet, which doesn’t need to be organized, but it gives me something to do with my hands that isn’t checking my phone every thirty seconds. Sloane shoots me a few concerned looks but doesn’t push, probably assuming my weirdness is Knox-related. She’s not entirely wrong.
By mid-afternoon, I’ve almost convinced myself that the photograph was a fluke. A one-time message. Maybe Liam just wanted me to know he was in the city. Maybe he’ll drop it now that he’s made his point, let me go the way I let him go five years ago, and I can go back to pretending none of it ever happened.
I should know better than to hope for easy.
The courier arrives just after three.
Sloane’s stepped out to grab us coffee from the place around the corner, which means I’m alone when the guy in the branded polo appears at the security door with a clipboard and a padded envelope. I sign for it with a fake smile and wait until he’s gone before I tear it open.
A burner phone slides into my palm. Black, cheap, the kind you buy at a bodega with cash. Underneath it, a folded note in that same familiar handwriting.
We need to talk. Alone. The diamond isn’t safe. Neither are you. —L
The phone starts ringing before I’ve finished reading.
I glance toward the door. Still empty. Sloane won’t be back for at least ten minutes. I slip into the hallway, pressing my back against the wall beside the fire exit, and answer.
“Liam.”
“Hails.” Five years, and he still says my name like that. Like we’re mid-conversation, like no time has passed at all, like I didn’t leave him with hollow words on paper and never look back. “It’s good to hear you.”
I want to scream at him. I want to demand to know why he’s here, why now, why he couldn’t just let me have this new life I’ve built from the ashes of the old one. But Sloane could come back any second, and the hallway isn’t exactly soundproof. I keep it low, controlled.