Chapter Seventy-Three – When Jealousy Strikes
Annabel’s POV
The morning light felt sharper than usual, cutting through the curtains in narrow slants that reached the edge of my pillow. I lay there for a long time, my phone pressed against my chest, the screen still dark. Alexander hadn’t called. Again.
There was no reason to expect him to. Yet I had waited — like a fool who still thought she mattered enough for him to remember.
When I finally dragged myself out of bed, the penthouse was too quiet. His absence had a way of echoing louder than his presence ever did. I went through the motions — coffee, shower, another carefully chosen outfit — anything to keep from thinking.
But silence always found me.
By the time I reached the office, whispers already floated through the air. They weren’t loud, just sharp enough to cut through the low hum of conversation. It was the kind of silence that followed someone who was being watched.
“Did you hear?” one voice murmured near the elevator. “She was in his office yesterday.”
I didn’t turn. I didn’t need to.
Sophie.
The name slipped through the walls like smoke. I had never met her, but I knew who she was — the woman everyone said once had his heart, the one who had left him before anyone else could.
I kept my head high as I walked past, the click of my heels steady against the marble. I told myself it was just gossip. That people in Alexander’s world thrived on rumors and half-truths. But deep down, I knew better.
When I entered his office later that morning, he was already there. His jacket hung loosely over the back of his chair, his sleeves rolled up, his focus buried in a file. The man looked composed as always, but there was something new in the way his eyes flicked up when he saw me — hesitation, maybe guilt.
“Good morning,” I said, forcing my voice steady.
“Morning.” His tone was casual, controlled. Too controlled.
I set a folder on his desk, my gaze catching briefly on the glass of water beside him. The faintest scent of jasmine lingered in the air. I almost told myself I imagined it.
“You didn’t come home last night,” I said quietly.
He looked up, surprise flashing across his face before he masked it again. “There was work.”
“Work,” I repeated, almost to myself. “Right.”
He leaned back slightly, studying me. “Is something wrong?”
I met his gaze. “Should I ask that question instead?”
For a heartbeat, neither of us spoke. The city stretched beyond the glass, endless and cold. I saw my reflection faintly overlapping his — two people standing too close to admit how far apart they had become.
Finally, he sighed, closing the file. “You heard something.”
I folded my arms. “Depends on what you call something.”
“Annabel—”
“Her name was Sophie, wasn’t it?” The words came out sharper than I intended. “She came to your office.”
He paused. That small silence told me everything.
“It was nothing,” he said eventually.
“Nothing?” I gave a short, humorless laugh. “People don’t talk about nothing, Alexander.”
He stood, moving around the desk toward me. “She came by unannounced. I didn’t invite her.”
“That makes it better?”
“It makes it irrelevant,” he said firmly. “Whatever happened between us ended years ago.”
His voice was calm, but the precision in it made my chest ache. I hated how easily he separated emotion from logic, how cleanly he folded the past away while mine bled into the present.
“Do you still love her?” I asked quietly.
He blinked. “No.”
“Do you still think about her?”
A longer pause this time. He didn’t answer right away, and that silence pressed against my ribs like a weight.
“That’s not what this is about,” he said.
“Then tell me what it’s about.”
“She came to talk. That’s all.”
“About what?”
He hesitated again, and something in his expression shifted. “She wanted to congratulate me. Or so she said.”
I laughed softly. “People like her don’t visit for congratulations. They visit because they can.”
He exhaled. “Annabel, you’re reading too much into this.”
“No, I’m reading exactly what’s there.” I took a step closer. “You didn’t tell me because you knew I’d find out. You just hoped it would come later.”
“That’s not true.”
“Then why didn’t you mention it?”
His jaw tightened. “Because it meant nothing.”
The calm in his tone only made the heat rise in me. “Do you even hear yourself? You say it meant nothing, but she walked into your office like she still knew how to reach you.”
He met my gaze steadily. “You think I let her?”
“I think you didn’t stop her.”
The words came out before I could swallow them back. A flicker of pain crossed his face, gone almost as soon as it appeared.
“You’re jealous,” he said quietly.
“Of course I am,” I shot back. “Wouldn’t you be?”
He stepped closer then, close enough that I could feel his breath. “You don’t have to be.”
“Then stop giving me reasons to be.”
We stared at each other for a long moment. The tension in the room felt electric, thick enough to taste. His hand twitched, like he wanted to reach for me but wasn’t sure if he should.
When he finally did, his fingers brushed my cheek. “I told you, it’s over with her.”
“But it isn’t over for you, is it?” I whispered.
He drew in a slow breath, his hand dropping to his side. “You’re wrong.”
“Am I?”
His eyes darkened. “Yes.”
Something in his tone made me step back. The distance between us grew, heavy and quiet.
“I didn’t come here to fight,” I said finally.
“Then don’t,” he said, his voice softer now. “You’re the one I’m with, Annabel. Not her.”
“Because of a contract,” I said bitterly.
He froze.
The truth hung between us, raw and undeniable. For a moment, his expression shifted — not anger, not surprise, but something deeper.
“I didn’t ask for this arrangement to become complicated,” he said.
“But it has,” I replied.
He didn’t answer. The silence stretched, fragile and unspoken. I turned away first, my eyes catching the faint reflection of us in the glass again.
“I should go,” I said.
He took a step forward. “Annabel—”
“Don’t.” My voice was quiet, but it stopped him. “Whatever this is, I need to breathe before I forget who I was before you.”
He said nothing. Just watched as I walked toward the door.
When I reached it, I paused. “You should know,” I said without turning, “I don’t compete for what I already have.”
Then I left.
The hallway outside felt colder, the whispers quieter now but still there, waiting. I didn’t care what they said anymore. Let them talk.
But as I stepped into the elevator, my chest tightened. Because deep down, I knew the truth — I wasn’t afraid of losing him to her.
I was afraid he’d already given her a part of himself I could never touch.
And that, more than anything, terrified me.