Chapter 39: Forty

Reid

Switzerland was colder than I remembered. Or maybe it was just me.

The glass-walled conference room overlooked Lake Geneva, its icy surface reflecting the pale winter sun. Beyond it, the snow-capped Alps stood sharp against a cloudless blue sky — beautiful, imposing, unmoving.

It should’ve been calming. Impressive, even.

But all I felt was restless.

Because my phone sat face-down on the table, and I was forcing myself not to check it.

“Mr. Callahan?”

I looked up, masking my distraction with practiced ease. My expression was unreadable — the kind I’d perfected over years of negotiations and high-stakes deals.

“Go on,” I said coolly.

The man across from me — some European financier with too much confidence and not enough leverage — shifted nervously under my gaze. The room was warm, but I watched a bead of sweat slip down his temple.

Good.

That meant I still had the upper hand.

“We’re prepared to move forward with the terms you outlined,” he said, his voice carefully measured. “But there’s concern about the Prescott merger. The headlines—”

I cut him off with a smile that wasn’t really a smile. Just a sharp curve of my lips, the kind that made people tread carefully. “The merger is under control. And the headlines are exactly what they’re meant to be — distraction.”

He blinked. “You mean the—”

“The marriage,” I said smoothly, leaning back in my chair. “A well-played move, wouldn’t you agree?”

His eyes flicked to the headlines on the financial reports in front of him. I already knew what they said. Speculation. Analysis. Power couple or business strategy?

He nodded quickly, clearly deciding not to push.

Which was good.

Because I wasn’t in the mood.

I let the meeting play out, speaking when I needed to, listening when it served me. The terms were agreed on, the contracts set to move forward. It was a win — another step toward solidifying the Prescott deal, another carefully calculated move in a game I never lost.

And yet, the restlessness didn’t ease.

When the meeting ended and the room emptied, I finally reached for my phone.

One new message.

Fallon: Where are you?

My chest tightened.

Four simple words. They shouldn’t have hit me the way they did. But they did.

I stared at the screen longer than I should have — longer than I’d ever admit — before locking it without replying. Not yet.

I told myself it was better this way. That space was what we needed. We had agreed to live separate lives and that was exactly what I was doing.

~~

The hotel bar was dim and quiet, the kind of place where no one asked questions. Which was exactly what I needed.

The bartender poured my drink without small talk — another reason I liked this place. I sipped my whiskey slowly, letting the burn settle in my throat, but it didn’t warm me. Not really.

Because even here, my mind kept drifting.

To the kiss.

To the fights.

To the way she felt when she pulled away — warm and soft and right — before the walls went back up. Before mine did, too.

I shouldn’t have left the way I did.

But distance felt safer.

Even when it didn’t feel good.

I tapped my fingers against the glass, watching the light catch the amber liquid. The silence stretched around me — familiar and heavy — but for once, it didn’t feel like peace. It felt like absence.

Her absence.

I could still see her face when I closed my eyes — the way she looked at me when she thought I wasn’t watching. Curious. Guarded. And sometimes, when she let her guard slip, something softer.

And the way she looked when we fought — eyes flashing, voice sharp enough to cut through my defenses.

I’d pushed her. And she’d pushed right back.

No one else did that.

No one else ever had.

The ice in my glass cracked, the sound startling in the stillness. I sighed, rubbing a hand over my jaw. I hadn’t slept much since I left. Too many late nights. Too many distractions that didn’t work.

I thought I wanted space.

So why did it feel like I was suffocating?

I shouldn’t have kissed her. Why did I have to?

That was the thought I kept circling back to. The one I couldn’t shake.

But I had. And I couldn’t regret it.

Not when I could still feel her against me — the way her breath caught when I touched her, the way her hands fisted in my shirt like she didn’t want to let go. The taste of her, the heat, the want — it had been real.

For a few perfect moments, the world had fallen away.

But then it came crashing back.

We were a business deal. A strategy. A well-played move.

That’s what I kept telling myself.

But the way she made me feel?

That wasn’t business.

And it sure as hell wasn’t safe.

My phone buzzed against the bar, and my heart jumped before I could stop it.

But it wasn’t her. It was my assistant, confirming tomorrow’s schedule. I locked the screen without answering.

The silence stretched. The whiskey burned. And through it all, her words kept echoing in my mind:

Where are you?

I didn’t have a good answer. Because I didn’t know anymore.

Back in my hotel room, the night stretched long and empty. The city lights flickered outside the windows, casting patterns across the walls. I sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, thumb hovering over her name.

I wanted to answer.

I wanted to hear her voice.

But what would I even say?

I miss you? I’m sorry for running off?

Neither of those felt like things I could say. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Instead, I typed out a different message. One I almost sent.

Reid: I shouldn’t have left without letting you know

But I deleted it. And the silence remained.