Chapter 31
Adam's POV:
Maya didn't answer.
She just stood there, gripping her purse strap so tight her knuckles turned white, jaw set like she was bracing for impact.
Finally, she turned and walked toward the bedroom.
When she came back out, she'd changed into a simple green t-shirt and matching green shorts—comfortable, casual.
She moved past me without a word, heading straight for the kitchen.
I followed.
She pulled her hair up into a messy bun, exposing the curve of her neck—long, elegant, the kind of neck I used to trace with my lips until she shivered.
Stop.
I dragged my eyes away, focusing on the chipped countertop, the faded linoleum floor, anything but the memory of how her skin tasted.
My phone buzzed.
Video call—Grandmother.
I glanced at Maya, who was pulling vegetables from the fridge, then stepped out onto the balcony.
It was small. Cramped. Clothes hung on a makeshift line strung between two rusty hooks.
I answered the call.
Grandmother's face filled the screen, her expression sharp and expectant.
"Where are you?" she demanded. Then her eyes narrowed. "What is that behind you?"
Before I could answer, a gust of wind knocked something loose from the line.
It landed on my face.
I pulled it off—slowly, carefully—and stared at the soft green fabric in my hand.
A bra.
Maya's bra.
Grandmother's eyes went wide. "Is that—Adam Sterling, are you at a woman's apartment?"
I opened my mouth to respond, but she was already shrieking.
"Robert! Robert, come here! Our grandson has a girlfriend!"
"Grandmother—"
"Is it the girl who ran out of your penthouse?"
My father's voice drifted in from the background, calm and unimpressed. "Mom, the office has been spreading rumors that Adam has a son now. You really shouldn't believe every piece of gossip you hear."
"I'm not gossiping! I'm on a video call with him right now. He's standing on a woman's balcony. With her underwear in his hand."
I hung up.
Stared at the phone for a long moment.
Then I looked down at the bra still clutched in my fist—delicate, lacy.
I hung it back on the line.
Carefully.
Then I stood there for another minute, letting the cold air cool the heat crawling up my neck.
---
When I stepped back inside, Maya was at the stove, her back to me, shoulders tense.
"Need help?" I asked.
She didn't look at me. "No. You can wait in the living room."
Her face was flushed.
She heard.
I bit back a smile.
"I'll wash the vegetables," I said, already moving to the sink.
She glanced at me, startled, then quickly looked away. "I said I don't need help."
I ignored her.
Turned on the faucet.
Picked up a bundle of celery.
Five years ago, we used to do this all the time—cook together in her tiny Cleveland apartment. She'd chop vegetables while I washed dishes, and sometimes we'd get distracted, and the food would burn, and we'd laugh about it later while eating takeout on the floor.
Sometimes we didn't make it to the chopping part at all.
I glanced at her now—at the way her hair fell in loose strands against her neck, the curve of her waist, the way her hips swayed slightly as she stirred the pot.
Heat coiled low in my stomach.
Stop.
I dropped the celery in the sink and walked out of the kitchen.
---
I stood by the window, hands shoved in my pockets, staring out at the street below.
This was insane.
I'd spent five years convincing myself I was over her. Five years telling myself she was just another woman who'd chosen money over me. Five years building walls so high, so thick, that nothing could get through.
And then I saw her again.
And all of it—every brick, every defense, every fucking lie I'd told myself—crumbled.
I couldn't stay away from her.
Couldn't stop thinking about her.
Couldn't stop wanting her.
Even now, knowing what she was, knowing what she'd done, I still wanted her.
Pathetic.
I pulled out my phone, typed a quick message to Ethan.
Need a drink. The Harvard Club.
His reply came almost immediately.
Parker's traveling. Just us?
Yeah.
Be there in 20.
I left without saying goodbye.
Slipped out the door while Maya was still in the kitchen, while Amy was in her room reading a storybook.
---
By the time I got to the club, Ethan was already in our usual private room, a fresh bottle of whiskey on the table.
He looked up when I walked in. "You look like shit."
I dropped into the chair across from him and grabbed the bottle, pouring myself a generous glass.
"Thanks."
"I'm serious. What's going on?"
I downed the whiskey in one swallow. Poured another.
Ethan watched me, eyebrows raised. "Dude. You planning to finish that whole bottle tonight?"
"Maybe."
"Adam—"
"Drop it."
But he didn't. He leaned back, arms crossed, studying me with that annoying big-brother look. "Let me guess. Woman trouble."
I didn't answer. Just poured another drink.
I drank. The burn felt good. Clean.
"Ethan. Seriously. Drop it."
He sighed, reaching for his own glass. "Fine. But for the record, drinking yourself into a coma isn't going to fix whatever this is."
"I know."
"Do you? Because you're halfway through that bottle already."
I ignored him. Poured another.
"Jesus Christ." He shook his head. "You're going to be wrecked tomorrow."
"Good."
"Good?"
I muttered into my glass, barely audible. "Better drunk than thinking about her."
"What?"
I looked up, meeting his eyes. "Nothing."
He stared at me for a long moment. Then he sighed again, rubbing his face. "You know what, man? I'm here. Whatever you need. But you gotta talk to me. I can't help if you won't tell me what's going on."
---
Maya's POV:
I didn't hear him leave.
One moment he was standing by the window, silent and still, and the next—he was gone.
Just like that.
No goodbye.
No explanation.
Typical.
I stood there in the kitchen, staring at the empty living room, my hands trembling as I gripped the edge of the counter.
Amy wandered in, rubbing her eyes. "Where's Uncle Adam?"
"He left."
"Oh." She frowned. "He didn't say bye."
"No. He didn't."
She looked up at me, her expression too wise for a four-year-old. "Are you mad at him?"
Yes.
"No, sweetheart. I'm just tired."
She nodded, accepting the lie, and climbed onto a stool. "Can I help with dinner?"
I smiled, forcing the tension out of my shoulders. "Of course."