Chapter 16: Locked Doors and Unlocked Emotions

That morning, the New York sky still hadn’t made up its mind. Sunny or gray. Dew clung stubbornly to the edges of pine leaves as the matte-black sports car came to a smooth stop in front of my office building.

Reagan killed the engine and pulled the handbrake, calm as ever. One hand still rested on the wheel, eyes fixed straight ahead.

I glanced at him, then reached for my bag and grabbed the door handle.

I pulled.

Nothing.

I pulled again. Still locked.

My brow furrowed. I turned to him. “Reagan,” I muttered, colder than the morning air.

Still, he didn’t look at me. Still stared ahead, face unreadable like he was waiting for the first wave to hit the beach.

“You forgot something,” he said, annoyingly calm.

I blinked slowly. “What?”

“Permission to leave,” he said flatly. But there it was...the tiniest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Just enough to make me want to chuck my entire bag at his face.

I leaned in, putting on my sweetest voice. “Open the door, Reagan.”

He turned to me. His eyes were cool, relaxed… and full of smug. “Kiss me first.”

My eyes went wide. “What?”

He nodded, like it was the most normal request in the world. “Just the cheek. Then you’re free.”

“Reagan Milano.” I growled at him. “I am not going to—”

“Oh, you are,” he said, leaning back, tilting his face ever so slightly and tapping his cheek like he was marking a target. “Your choice—make it quick, or let your coworkers watch this drama unfold on the security cameras.”

I clenched the strap of my bag, narrowing my eyes. “You are such a—”

“Charming? Adorable? Irresistible?” He raised a brow. “I know.”

“Jerk. Asshole,” I hissed.

Then, with all the hatred I could pack into a single movement, I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his cheek. One second. Quick. More breath than kiss.

But Reagan...

That absolute menace, had the nerve to close his eyes like he was sipping the finest wine known to man.

And worse? He sighed. A long, satisfied sigh. Like he’d just had a spiritual awakening.

I almost shoved his head into the dashboard. “The door,” I snapped.

He calmly pressed the unlock button. I flung the door open and stepped out, rage practically radiating from my body.

“Thanks, sweetheart. Have a wonderful day.”

I spun back around, leaning slightly toward the open window. “I’m finding you a psychiatrist.”

He grinned behind the wheel. “Make sure she’s hot, latina like you and insecure. I like feeling emotionally superior in therapy.”

I hissed through my teeth, turned on my heel, and marched toward the building. Every step felt like a conscious effort not to turn back and smash his windshield.

But what pissed me off more?

My heart was still racing from that stupid kiss on his cheek.

And I knew...he knew it.

::

My office still felt warm when I closed the glass door behind me and dropped my bag on the guest chair instead of the little sofa Reagan usually sprawled on like he owned the place.

Work hours had just started, but the air already felt too loud for a brain still fogged from this morning and from last night. From Madeline Milano. From this whole parade of chaos that had somehow become my life.

The tablet in my hand displayed the overlay of our latest project.

The project. The SoHo Community Living plan.

On screen, it looked flawless. Clean lines, eco-forward elements, social-economic integration, and a structure my colleagues called “visionary.”

They called me innovative. They said the design was “bold” and “breathed life into urban social planning.”

But what they didn’t say?

That the largest chunk of funding for this project came from Reagan Milano. And that his name, directly or indirectly, was laced into every steel beam and poured into every slab of concrete. No signature necessary.

That was what made it hard to breathe every time someone praised it in the elevator.

Or like this morning, when our CFO said, “Gretta, your design is phenomenal. Mr. Milano made the right call trusting this to you.”

Trusting. Me.

As if I were just the doll holding the pencil, not the brain behind the blueprint they all worshipped.

I swiped to the next page, trying to focus on the revisions for the community garden layout. But the screen blurred slightly when my phone buzzed inside my bag.

A soft ping.

Ruan Domingo

📍 In New York. Don’t panic.

Lunch at the hospital? Dominic’s begging for food that doesn’t taste like cardboard. I’m begging for the face of my most annoying little sister.

I stared for a beat, then smiled.

Ruan. My brother, part superhero, part chaos-bringer. Too charismatic to be left alone, too sarcastic to be a priest.

And most importantly: He was in New York. Which meant something big was coming.

I scrolled down.

Ruan:

Don’t tell Ma I’m here yet. I’d like to eat lunch before she starts interrogating me about when I’m getting married.

I let out a small laugh, loud enough that one of the passing staff glanced through the office glass, curious.

Then I typed back.

Gretta:

I’ll be there at lunch time. If Dominic doesn’t smile, I’m taking guacamole off the menu.

His reply came almost instantly.

Ruan:

He’ll smile. Or I’m yanking out his IV.

I exhaled, sinking into my office chair. And for the first time today, something inside me loosened.

Ruan was in the city. Which meant I didn’t have to be the only buffer between Dominic’s fire and Mom’s emotional tornado. At least for a few hours, someone else could help make today feel less like navigating an emotional minefield.

I glanced back down at the tablet in front of me, plans for the community garden. Terraced benches. Stone paths. It was all still mine, even if his name was stamped all over the invoices.

But today… I’d step away from it. Today, I was having lunch with two men who, each in their own chaotic way, knew me better than anyone sitting in a boardroom.

I pressed the intercom button and told my assistant I’d be stepping out at exactly noon.

Then I leaned my head back, eyes closed for a moment.

The project might be massive. But my family… they were still more real than anything glowing on this screen.

And if there was anyone in this world who could remind me who Gretta Domingo was before this all turned into the Reagan Milano Power Show…

…it was Ruan.