Chapter 81 A mistake...
I pull a bill from my wallet and hand it to Trey without really looking at him. “Get her whatever she wants,” I say distractedly, gesturing vaguely toward Erica.
Trey nods once. “Got it.”
I’m already moving. My heart’s somewhere up in my throat now, pounding hard enough that I can feel it behind my ribs as I cut through the crowd and head for the stairs. They feel endless. The further I climb, the more the world below begins to blur. The music gets duller the higher I go. Less pounding bass, less voices. By the time I reach the VIP level, the music has died down to a throb.
My hand closes around the handle and for a second I just stand there breathing. Trying to steady myself. Trying to figure out why the hell I’m suddenly nervous. Then I push the door open, and there he is.
He’s standing in the center of the room, facing the door as if he’s been counting my footsteps.
The soundproofing hits me first once the door shuts behind me. The music outside turns into nothing but a distant pulse beneath the walls. The lighting’s brighter in here too, warm overhead light spilling across dark furniture and polished wood and the sharp lines of Bastian’s suit.
And fuck...
Seeing him again this close after two days of silence feels genuinely unfair. Because all that hurt and anger I’d spent hours trying to build up inside myself cracks almost instantly at the sight of him. I can actually look at him now. The icy blue eyes, the sharp jaw. The suit stretched clean over broad shoulders. The familiar way he carries himself like the entire world belongs to him and bores him at the same time.
Everything else is gone. It’s just this. This man. My chest aches with how badly I wanna get closer. I want to cross the space between us until there’s no air left. I want to grab the lapels of that expensive suit and pull him down until I can breathe him in, until I can verify that he’s real and not just a ghost I’ve been chasing. My fingers are itching, heat blooming in my palms.
I keep some distance between us anyway because this still feels fragile somehow. Weighted and undefined. I don’t know where we stand.
I don’t even know if we stand anywhere at all.
Bastian slowly takes his hands out of his pockets. Then he takes one step toward me. There's about three left between us now. His eyes are dark, scouring my face before they drop, just for a second, to my mouth.
"Who’s the girl?" he asks, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "The one who was all over you?"
I blink, a dry, incredulous scoff escaping me due to the exaggeration. Instead of answering, I tilt my head slightly. “Who’s the guy behind my bar?”
His expression barely shifts.
"That," he says curtly, "is the person making sure you don't actually work yourself into an early grave. He's here to cover some of your shifts, not steal them. I’m trying to keep you functional for my campaign.”
"You could've asked me," I challenge, my voice dropping.
He ignores the remark and gestures vaguely toward the window overlooking the floor below. "She’s pretty," his tone’s flat and controlled. Too controlled. "Seemed interested in you." His gaze sharpens, turning piercingly cold. "Is the feeling mutual?"
I give a small shake of my head. Then I frown slightly. “Is this seriously what you summoned me up here to talk about?”
Something flickers across his face, fast enough I almost miss it. His eyes dart elsewhere for a second before returning to mine, but he doesn’t answer. And something about that silence pulls at me. Before I even properly think it through, I step closer. My fingers are practically itching with the need to touch him now. It’s overwhelming. This stupid, aching need for closeness that only seems to get worse the longer I stand here looking at him. Like my body’s trying to close the distance for me. Bastian’s gaze drops briefly to my feet. Then slowly drags back up my body.
And maybe I’m imagining it, maybe I’m losing my damn mind completely, but for a second he almost looks ready to step back. Like proximity to me does something to him.
“She’s the new model,” I say distractedly.
His brows pull together faintly. "What new model?" he asks, his focus clearly elsewhere.
I take another step. Just one more left between us now. I’m so close I can see the slight tremor in his jaw. The way he’s holding himself rigid like he’s barely containing something beneath the surface. But I can also smell that familiar scent of his that makes my head spin. I look him dead in the eye, my heart screaming.
"I don't want to talk about her," I say, my voice thick with everything I’ve been bottling up. It comes out softer than I mean for it to. More vulnerable. More wanting. "I’d rather talk about us."
"Us," he whispers. He says it like he’s testing the weight of a foreign currency, something that doesn't belong in his world. He looks at me with that unreadable stare, then slowly tucks his hands into his pockets, physically closing himself off even as he stands inches away.
"I tried reaching out," I say, my voice sounding raw in the quiet of the room. "You were ignoring me."
He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t offer a convenient excuse or attempt denying it. "I was," he admits, his eyes pinned to mine. "I owe you an apology, and I figured doing so face to face was the only way to handle it properly."
Something uneasy twists in my chest, because this suddenly feels too formal. Too measured. Almost like he rehearsed this. I shake my head slightly. “I’m not mad or anything. What happened—”
“Was a mistake.”
The words cut clean through mine. Sharp enough that I actually blink. And it’s not even what he said that gets to me. It’s the cold and careful tone. Like he’s forcing each word out one at a time. My stomach drops, because suddenly I don’t know what mistake he’s talking about anymore.
That night in the study?
Or this entire thing between us?
He finally looks away from me. Jaw tight and eyes fixed somewhere off to the side instead. “I’ve had some time to think.”
My heart sinks so fast it physically hurts. I let out a humorless breath. “That’s never a good sign,” I mutter, a bitter taste rising in my throat.
He still doesn’t look at me. He shifts his gaze to the side, staring at the soundproofed wall as if he could see through it. His expression is cold and impossible to read. "I’m not sure how," he says quietly, "but I let things spiral between us. I allowed them to get out of control. I let my own... wants... interfere with the professional boundaries I usually set."
Every muscle in my body tenses. He's not just talking about that night, but everything. All of it. He’s trying to categorize me, to put me back in a box labeled 'Asset' or 'Employee.' I shake my head instantly before he can continue because no. Absolutely fucking not. I can already feel where this is going and I refuse to stand here and listen to him dismantle this thing between us like it meant nothing.
Like I imagined it.
Like I imagined him.
There’s this sudden desperate urge inside me to stop the conversation entirely. Shut it down before he says the one thing I know I don’t wanna hear. And the first instinct that hits me is simple. Flee. I turn away immediately.
“I’m going home,” I say quickly, already stepping toward the door. “We can talk when you’ve got something else to say to me. Something that doesn't sound like a goddamn script.”
I only manage one step toward the door before I hear a sharp movement behind me. A hand shoots out, fingers wrapping firmly around my wrist, stopping me in my tracks. The heat of his touch is a desperate contrast to the coldness of his words.