Chapter 5 Let's Move On
Alex remained seated for a long moment, elbows resting on his knees, palms pressed against his face. The hotel suite felt colder without her. He had made deals worth millions, negotiated crises in boardrooms, outmaneuvered ruthless competitors, yet here he was, defeated by a single morning and a woman he had known for barely twenty-four hours.
He pulled in a breath, stood up, and crossed the room to the window. Rain was smearing the glass, blurring the London skyline. He placed his palm against it as if he could erase what he had done by pressing hard enough.
“What happened to you, Alex? Since when do you chase moments instead of logic? Since when do you let someone under your skin?”
He shut his eyes. And saw hers, hurt, wounded, and vulnerable.
He had seen women cry before, but there was something about Shopia’s silence, her trembling voice holding back tears instead of spilling them, that shook him more than any shouting ever could.
She didn’t want money, she wanted sincerity and he that foolishly, pathetically had tried to offer safety in the one language he understood.
You idiot.
He grabbed his shirt, but instead of putting it on, he tossed it aside. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel like Alex Maxwell, the man who always had a plan.
Meanwhile in the taxi
Shopia’s fingers tightened around her bag strap, knuckles pale. She wasn’t crying, the tears had dried somewhere between the elevator ride and the hotel lobby, leaving only a dull ache behind her ribs.
“What now?” she whispered to herself.
Move on, she wanted to say. Forget him. Pretend last night never happened. But memories don’t obey commands. They linger like perfume on a pillow, faint but impossible to ignore.
And she hated herself for remembering the way his voice softened when he said her name. She hated that part the most.
When the cab stopped outside her flat, she paid the driver, stepped out into the drizzle, and hurried into the building. Inside her apartment, she leaned against the door and finally exhaled.
“God damn it, Shopia!” she muttered.
She went to the bathroom, turned on the tap, splashed cold water on her face.
“You’re fine. You’ll forget him,” she whispered to her reflection.
Back in the hotel, an hour later…
Alex finally forced himself to dress and leave. The lobby was busy, filled with laughter and clinking glasses. He handed his ticket to the valet.
“Your car will be right out, Mr. Maxwell,” the young man said politely.
Alex just nodded, jaw tight. Noise buzzed around him, but all he could hear was the memory of Shopia’s voice.
A few minutes later, his black Bentayga rolled up to the entrance. He slipped inside, tugging the door shut harder than necessary, shutting out everything or trying to.
The moment the engine hummed underneath him, the silence became suffocating.
He didn’t even turn on the radio, he just drove.
Through the early London traffic, through gray skies and wet streets, wipers dragging across the windshield like a heartbeat too slow.
His mansion sat at the end of a long, private lane, modern, cold lines against the manicured trees. A place that looked impressive, enviable.
He parked and shut down the engine.
For a moment, he stayed still, fingers resting loosely against the wheel. His eyes burned, though he’d never admit such a thing, even to himself.
He inhaled, sharp and rough then stepped out.
Inside, the air smelled like polished wood and expensive silence. The housekeeper wasn't there yet, everything was still.
He loosened his tie even though he wasn’t wearing one habit, mucle memory, stress reflex.
His footsteps echoed as he walked to the living room, then stopped halfway.
Shopia’s laughter from last night flashed through his mind.
Then the way her eyes hardened when he said it.
"How much do you need?"
He raked a hand through his hair again, pacing like a man who suddenly didn't know where to put himself.
This didn’t happen to him. He had rules, no complications, no attachments, no softness.
But last night, last night had felt different.
He sat heavily on the sofa, elbows on his knees, palms pressed to his face.
He had hurt her and the worst part?
He hadn’t even realized it until it smashed her expression apart.
Shopia had just arrived at campus. She breathed in deeply, forcing herself to blend into the familiar rhythm. She hugged her books against her chest, fingers stiff, knuckles pale. Every step felt heavier than it should.
She slipped into her lecture hall and took her usual seat, third row near the window. The room smelled faintly of paper and cheap perfume, sunlight slanting across polished desks. She opened her notebook, clicked her pen.
Her professor began speaking about critical media analysis.But she didn’t hear the words. Because suddenly uninvited and unwanted memory struck her like lightning.
When Alex’s hand sliding up her spine. His breath against her neck. And when he whispering her name like it mattered.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Shopia swallowed hard. The ache behind her ribs tightened like a fist.
She forced herself to take notes anyway, though her handwriting trembled. Letters slanted wildly, like her thoughts were trying to run off the page.
“It was one night. One stupid night.”
So why did it feel like a fault line had opened inside her?
“Hey.”
A quiet voice beside her jolted her back to the present. It was Mia, her classmate.
“You look exhausted,” Mia whispered.
“Just… didn’t sleep much.” Shopia blinked quickly.
Mia studied her face, frowning slightly.
“Rough night hemm?”
The kind of question that could shatter someone if they answered honestly.
Shopia’s throat tightened. Her pulse jumped. For a second, she thought she might break. But she forced a small smile instead.
“Something like that.”
Mia didn’t push, she just nodded softly and turned back to her own notes. Comforting without prying. Something Alex hadn’t known how to do.
Shopia stared at the board again, pretending the words made sense.
Her mind drifted to Alex waking up, confused, reaching for her pillow finding nothing.
Did he feel anything? Or would he just move on, like she was nothing but a misplaced impulse?
Her chest burned at the thought.
Stop. You said you don’t care.
But she did. She hated that she did.
A notification buzzed on her phone against the desk. Shopia flinched, heart stuttering.
For one impossible second, she hoped it’s Alex.
Her fingers curled toward the phone, she flipped it over.
Not him. Just a banking app notification.
She inhaled shakily, pen trembling against paper.
‘You are not going to be that girl. The one who falls apart over someone who didn’t know how to handle you.’
She wrote the next line with fierce determination, forcing her hand steady.
But as the lecture droned on, as people flipped pages and screens glowed, one truth pulsed louder than anything else. She wasn’t forgetting Alex Maxwell anytime soon. And somewhere across London, in a mansion full of silence and regret.
He wasn’t forgetting her either.