Chapter 18
Dahlia
I hear voices before I even clear the hall, then the clink of dishes. I trail the noise past a row of closed doors until the space opens wide into the kitchen.
My gaze lands on Xander first. Broad shoulders in a dark suit that probably costs more than my yearly salary. Laptop on the counter, coffee in one hand, and papers in the other. He skims lines as the room orbits around him.
A man in a gray tie steps forward to slide another sheet under his hand, retreating without a word. Another lingers a few feet away, thumb flying over his phone.
There’s a woman in white moving behind the counter. Her knife snaps against the board, and in a swift motion, she scoops up the diced pieces and tosses them into a hot pan with a hiss, filling the air with the scent of onions.
I slow, caught off guard by how alive the kitchen is this early. No one notices me, their movements practiced, automatic. The sudden sense I don’t belong has my foot shifting back a step.
“You just can’t stay where I put you.” The scrape of wood cuts through the kitchen noise. Never looking up from his screen, Xander pulls the stool beside him out with one hand. I hover a second before sliding into the seat. It’s only now that I remember his order not to come downstairs without him.
His jacket hangs open, vest snug across his chest, fabric pressed sharp. A silver watch flashes at his cuff. Long fingers move over the keys, fast, controlled. Everything in front of him is set just so. Pen aligned, folders stacked, coffee cup within reach. The only thing out of place is me.
I place my hands in my lap, not sure where else to put them, and feel the distance between us even with barely a foot of counter separating me from his sleeve.
My fingers twine and untwine, wringing together as I sit in silence. There’s a heavy weight of awkwardness that Xander doesn’t seem to notice.
“What would you like for breakfast?” the chef asks, wiping her hands on a clean towel, polite smile fixed in place.
My first instinct is to shake my head, tell her I’m fine. I made Bradley’s protein shake every morning, but I never bothered to make anything for myself.
“I don’t need—”
Xander’s voice cuts clean through mine. “Make her an omelet. Fruit. Green juice.” He doesn’t raise it, doesn’t even pause. Just flicks his gaze up long enough to pin the chef, then back to the page in his hand.
The woman nods and turns back to the stove like that’s the end of it. His pen moves again, steady across the margin. Like I hadn’t said a word. Like I’m not even sitting here.
Heat climbs into my face, a prickle that spreads down my neck.
I press my palms tight against my thighs to keep from fidgeting.
Part of me wants to tell the chef to forget it, that I can make my own damn breakfast. I remind myself that she’s just doing her job, and I don’t want to make it any harder.
“Thank you,” I say to get it over with.
The chef gives me a soft smile before going back to work.
Xander doesn’t speak to me again. Instead, he focuses solely on his work, the noise of papers shuffling the only sound between us.
I stare at the stack of folders like they might shift and acknowledge me since he won’t. It’s stupid. I wanted him to leave me alone. So why does the silence pinch?
I hate the small twist in my stomach when he doesn’t even glance at me. It’s pathetic, sitting here wishing for his attention.
My jaw tightens. I shove the feeling down, deep, and huff. It’s too early for Stockholm syndrome. Nerves, maybe. Or just the fact that after everything, I don’t know where to look when I’m this close to him and he acts like I don’t exist.
The silence drags, so I clear my throat. “I need to call my boss at the diner. Let her know I’m okay.”
“Already did.”
My brows pull tight. “Pretty sure some random man calling her isn’t going to cut it.”
He slides his phone across the counter like we’ve skipped the whole discussion. The screen is lit with Connie’s number already ready to call.
I reach for the phone, but his hand comes down first, firm against the edge. “Speaker.”
The word leaves no room for argument. He pulls his hand back, already bent over the page in front of him, like I’m nothing more than background noise.
My stomach knots as I hit the button. It rings a few times, and then Connie’s voice spills through, warm and full like always.
“Sarah. Thank God. We’ve all been so worried.
” She doesn’t give me time to answer before she keeps going.
“That man came by. The one who brought you home from the hospital. Such a gentleman. And handsome too.” I can practically hear the wink in her voice.
I force a laugh, my eyes on the neat curve of Xander’s pen as it scratches the margin.
For a second, I think about telling her everything that happened, using her as a lifeline while I still can.
But then I remember the man on his knees in the alleyway, begging for his life.
There’s no way I’m going to drag her into this, even if she’s the only chance I have.
I’d rather stay here than risk her getting hurt.
So I play along. “I’m okay, Connie. Just banged up a little.”
“I should say so. Harold said he was in shock to see you being lifted into the ambulance. Said your head was covered in blood. Thank God you’re okay.”
I wince, thinking about how close Harold was to two killers. “Looked worse than it was. Head wounds bleed too much, but it’s only a scrape. I promise.”
There’s a pause on the line, then a soft sigh. “Well, I’m glad you found somewhere safe.”
“Me too.” My voice barely clears my throat, but it’s enough.
She wraps it up with a few more reassurances and promises to pass along the message to everyone at the diner.
A plate slides in front of me, steam curling up, and my stomach growls before I even pick up the fork.
I take a bite, the eggs fluffy and rich, and hum without meaning to when the taste hits. It’s better than anything I’ve made for myself.
My eyes flick open, and Xander’s are already on me.
Dark, steady, unreadable. The fork hangs midway for a second too long before I lower it. He doesn’t say anything, just studies me until one of the suited men clears his throat. “Sir, your next meeting.”
Xander pushes back from the stool and straightens, smooth as ever.
The question blurts before I can stop it. “What about my things?”
He pauses, looking down at me. “They will be dropped off today. You’ll have more clothes delivered shortly.”
“I don’t need that,” I shoot back quickly, heat rising in my face.
He doesn’t bother answering, just turns, attention already elsewhere, and walks away.
My shoulders tighten, and I drop my head into my palms, elbows resting on the counter. I clench my teeth together, biting back a groan. Why is that man so infuriating?
“I should have known you were trouble from the second you showed up looking like a drowned rat.” A man steps into the kitchen carrying a box. Broad frame, dark suit, sharp brow. I recognize the doorman from the club instantly.
My eyes widen. “What are you doing here?”
He sets the box down on the counter like it weighs nothing. “You should have listened when I told you not to speak with anyone.”
I shove back from the stool, heat flaring in my face. “Do you really need to point that out?” My voice comes out sharper than I expect, then falters. “Okay, but…aren’t you a bouncer? What are you doing here?”
His brow lifts. “You’re the one who assumed I’m a bouncer. I was waiting for the boss.”
Boss sounds like something out of a mafia movie.
He shifts the box higher, then pauses, almost like he’s reconsidering something. “Name’s Marco, by the way. Since you’ll be seeing more of me.”
I wet my lips and lower my voice, taking a step closer. “Can you get me out of here?”
He chuckles, low, shaking his head. “I don’t have a death wish. The Everette brothers don’t fuck around when it comes to their wives.”
My stomach twists hard. “I’m not his wife.”
He shrugs, rolling one shoulder, then looks at my hand. “Looks like you are. Relax, give him a chance. Once you get to know him, you’ll see he isn’t half-bad.”
The words stun me. My mouth falls open. “A chance?” My voice spikes, disbelief spilling out.
He doesn’t bother to explain, just hefts the box higher. “I’ll take this upstairs.”
He moves past me, steps measured, and I trail after him before I think better of it. “This is kidnapping, you know.”
He glances over his shoulder, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Something like that.”
Upstairs, he drops the box onto the bed. His eyes flick from it to me steadily, like he’s measuring something. “Why don’t you have more?”
I cross my arms, heat crawling into my face. I’m not about to explain that I ran with nothing. “What’s it to you?”
He studies me for another beat, unreadable, then shrugs. “It’s my job to make sure the boss is happy.”
I don’t bother trying to figure out what he means by that, instead turning my attention toward the box, pulse beating in my throat.
“If you need anything, call out. I’ll be downstairs.” He leaves without waiting for an answer.
The door clicks shut. I lunge forward, tearing into the box, clothes spilling out around me. My fingers push past them, digging deeper until they close over a small plastic container. My heart kicks hard when I flip it open, revealing my old phone I hid inside.
Quickly, I slide it into my pocket. The image is the only proof I have of anything that’s happened.
I drop onto the mattress, trying to figure out where to stash the phone. Only then do I notice the rest of what’s in the box. Propped carefully in the corner, braced by my things, sits a small clay pot.
My breath catches as I reach for it with both hands. Leaves curl over the rim, stubbornly green, a few new ones stretching higher, reaching for light. I blink hard, vision blurring.
It was barely hanging on when I found it. Just like me. But it grew anyway. Stronger, steadier, pushing past what should have killed it.
Something loosens in my chest. I set the plant on the windowsill, fingers brushing the new leaves, and whisper to myself, I’ll be fine too.