Ten
TEN
LIAM
T he morning sun pierces through the window, blinding me as I squint against its brightness. Five fifty-five. Damn it, I forgot to lower the blinds again. I stretch my body, feeling the stiffness slowly dissipate. Well, since the universe has decided I don’t need sleep, I might as well start the day. Lovely.
When I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror, a bitter laugh slips out. The bruise around my eye has deepened into a spectacular shade of purple, and the cut on my cheek is already scabbing over, and the split lip? Well, that’s just the cherry on top. Stunning. Really. I’m thirty-four years old and look like I stepped out of a low-budget action movie. Shouldn’t I be past getting into fights over a girl? Apparently not. Guess maturity took the day off. But this girl… My jaw tightens as I study the wreckage of my face. She’s worth every bruise, every fight. And I owe her. The thought lingers, heavier than the ache in my face, stubbornly refusing to let go.
I shake my head, scoffing at myself. I’m turning into some tragic hero. This isn’t a movie, and I sure as hell don’t have the face for it anymore.
To today’s problem: how the hell am I supposed to walk into the hotel looking like this? Humiliating doesn’t even cover it. I run a hand over my jaw, my fingers brushing the bruised and tender skin.
Splashing cold water on my face, I let the weekend replay in my head, uninvited. Seeing Sophie again. That man’s hands on her. Her gentle– and not so gentle– touch when she patched me up. It’s all tangled together, leaving me feeling exposed and unsettled. How is it possible that she still has this effect on me after all this time?
I press my palms against the sink, letting the cold porcelain ground me. Can I fix what I broke? Is that even possible? We were young, and I let her down in ways I didn’t understand back then. Regret has haunted me for years, but regret doesn’t change the past. Still, maybe—just maybe—I can fix something, even if it’s just building a friendship again. For her. For us. For the people who have to put up with this tension.
I sigh, stepping away from the mirror—enough wallowing for today.
The hot water hits my back, easing the tension in my muscles as I try to sort through my thoughts. The steam fogs the air, but clarity doesn’t come with it. Why does this still feel so raw after all these years? Why does she still feel so close, even when she’s emotionally miles away?
By the time I’ve dried off and thrown on some clothes, my mind is no less cluttered, but my stomach has started to remind me I haven’t eaten. Breakfast, at least, is something I can control.
The kitchen was stocked before I arrived, and I’m endlessly grateful to my new assistant for making sure it was all set up. Lilly is a gem—organized, reliable, and always one step ahead, which is more than I can say about myself right now.
I take some yogurt from the fridge and scoop it onto a plate. Mixing in salt, fresh herbs, and a bit of chili. I drizzle olive oil and some za’atar over it, creating my own version of labneh.
Then, I scramble eggs with sucuk, a spicy sausage that adds just enough heat to make the dish feel alive. I cut up some fresh vegetables, though it all feels like a blur, like I’m just going through the motions. Finally, I sit down with a large coffee in hand—just like Ammo used to make it, or at least, sort of. It’s a poor substitute for what I really want. A little peace. A little clarity. And maybe—just maybe—a way forward. A way to stop feeling stuck in this cycle, to figure out what’s next, and to finally let go of what’s holding me back.
My stomach growls, but my phone rings just as I’m about to dip my pita in the yogurt. Who the fuck calls at six-thirty in the morning? My question is quickly answered when the caller ID reveals my brother’s name, and he’s FaceTiming too. What’s wrong with him?
“It’s very early, Lucas. Why are you calling me?”
“What the fuck happened to your face?” Lucas blurts out.
Fuck. For a second, I forgot about the cuts and bruises. I’m an idiot.
“I had a little...accident,” I say, trying to brush it off.
Lucas raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “An accident? You look like you went twelve rounds with a heavyweight champ. What happened?”
I sigh, rubbing a hand over my short hair. “It’s a long story, and I don’t have time to get into it right now. I’ve got a busy day ahead.”
Lucas’s expression softens slightly. “You better call me later and explain. You know I worry about you.”
“I know, I know, just don’t tell Leo-”
Before I can finish my plea, a female shriek cuts through my ear drum.
“LIAM, WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?” My sister-in-law Leora appears over Lucas’ shoulder. Great, just great.
“Heeeey, Leora,” I drawl, attempting to sound nonchalant, though the tension in my voice betrays me.
Her gaze sharpens, laced with worry, cutting straight through my act.
“It’s nothing serious, I promise,” I add quickly, forcing a casual tone that feels anything but convincing.
She snatches the phone out of Lucas’ hand, and I hear him take a deep breath as she starts walking around—or rather, wobbling. She’s very pregnant, expecting their second child—my second niece or nephew. We don’t know the gender yet, but I’m so excited.
“Nothing serious? You look like you’ve been beaten up by a gorilla!” she exclaims, her voice laced with growing concern.
I roll my eyes. Obviously, she’s exaggerating—I’m not that beat up. She should see the other guy.
“Leora, honey, please calm down. Stress isn’t good for you or the baby,” Lucas says, his tone careful, but Leora turns and fixes him with a glare sharp enough to cut steel.
“Can you at least sit down?” he pleads, his voice edging on desperation.
“I’m pregnant, Lucas. I’m not a porcelain doll,” she snaps, her words carrying that no-nonsense tone we all know too well. But, to his credit—or maybe just to spare him—she eventually sighs and lowers herself into a chair.
“Now, back to Liam,” she says, unfortunately. ”This isn’t like you, why are you fighting? You’ve barely been in New York for half a week.”
“I know, I know... It was just a one-time thing, probably caused by jet lag,” I mutter, unsure if that’s even a valid excuse.
Leora's eyes narrow, clearly unconvinced. “Jet lag doesn't give you bruises and cuts. You need to take better care of yourself and that mouth of yours.”
Lucas nods in agreement. “She's right, Liam. Whatever happened, you can't keep this up. It's not good for you or your reputation.” What he means is our reputation. The business.
I nod, feeling a pang of guilt. “I get it. I’ll be more careful. I promise.”
Leora sighs, her expression softening slightly. “Just...please, be safe.”
“I will.” I give them a reassuring smile.
“Okay then, so…” Leora starts, “how’s Sophie?”
No, we’re not having a conversation about Sophie this early in the morning. Mind it, they don’t know about our past, but be it as it may, I’m not in the mood. I just want to eat my breakfast and get to work, for fuck’s sake. So I resort to desperate measures.
I make static noises. “Oh-you guys,” more static, “you seem to be bre-” static, “up.” I shake the phone. “I’ll call you later.”
“Liam, stop acting like a child,” Lucas chides and I just know his jaws are locked down, almost breaking his teeth.
“Bye,” I say, turning the phone on airplane mode and setting it down on the counter. Then I relax and finally eat my breakfast in silence.
“Sir, you have a meeting with the contractor at eleven a.m., lunch with a new investor at twelve p.m., and then the new interior designer you wanted to interview is coming in around two.” Lilly continues to list my schedule for the day, but I tune out after she mentions the interior designer. I almost told her to cancel. Sophie deserves every opportunity to thrive, to get the recognition she’s earned, but another designer could bring valuable perspectives and insights—fresh ideas that complement her work. Besides, it might ease her workload. The last thing I want is for her to burn out before she can truly shine.
“...and Miss Anderson is on her way.”
“Thank you, Lilly. That should be all for now.”
Lilly nods, a faint hint of a smile playing on her lips. Her gaze lingers momentarily, almost as if she's gauging my reaction. “Just call on me if you need anything, sir,” she says, her voice a touch softer than before. As she turns to leave, I catch a subtle movement—she moistens her lips with a quick flick of her tongue.
Her pencil skirt molds perfectly to her figure, accentuating every curve as she walks away. But it’s the way she moves that catches my attention—an extra sway in her step, exaggerated to the point of looking almost rehearsed. For a second, I wonder if she’s struggling to balance or if her shoes are out to get her. Maybe she’s just really committed to the art of dramatic exits. I shake off the thought and glance away. Probably just how she walks.
A blonde bombshell walks through the door and my gaze immediately goes to her instead of Lilly.
“Oh,” Sophie stops in her tracks, her hand flying to her mouth. “God, you look...like a mess,” she says, her voice soft but trembling with concern as she takes a hesitant step closer.
I tilt my head slightly. “Okay, let’s tone down the theatrics. It’s not that bad.” But the way her expression doesn’t budge tells me I’m not convincing either of us. So, I shift gears, forcing a faint smirk. “Good morning to you, too, Sophie.”
“We have a meeting with the contractor in an hour.” Her tone is urgent, yet there’s a mix of professional concerns with what I hope is personal.
I straighten up a bit. “I’m aware of that.”
Her eyes search my face. “Are you going to meet him looking like that?”
“There’s not much I can do now, can I?” My tone dips into a slight annoyance. I’m aware I look like a mess, and I know it’s going to come across as unprofessional. The situation spiraled out of control—all because I couldn’t rein in this lingering heat of possessiveness. The thought of slimy men around her? Fucking hell, no.
She puts her handbag on my desk and dives into it. “I should have some concealer and powder here somewhere.”
As she rummages through her bag, I take a moment to study her. I notice the way she moves, the determination in her eyes, and the incredible scent of her perfume—soft and floral, with just enough sweetness to linger without being overpowering. It wraps around me, unmistakably her.
Wait, did she say concealer and powder? As in makeup?
“Ah, here.” In her hand is a small beige tube and a round thing that looks like some kind of makeup case.
“What are you going to do with them?”
She hums as she walks around my desk and turns my chair toward her.
“We’re getting rid of the bruise around your eye; the others are cuts and I don’t want them to get infected.”
“You’re putting makeup on me?”
She puts her hands on her hips. “Please don’t start the I’m a man speech. This will not make you less of a man.”
“That’s not what I was going to say,” I reply with a laugh. “I was just going to say that I made my bed and should lie in it. You don’t have to fix this.”
She looks down at me with a sweet smile on her pretty pink lips. Do they still feel as good to kiss? Nope. Not what I should be thinking.
“It’s okay. We’re a team, right? A good team needs to look good,” she says softly, brushing off the tension with ease.
I relax back in my chair, reclining the seat as I set my feet on the desk. “Well, get started then, Sunshine. We don’t have all day.”
That smile disappears, and her expression tightens slightly, but she doesn’t tell me not to call her Sunshine. Instead, she unscrews the lid of the beige tube and dots liquid around my eye.
She picks up a pink sponge that looks like an egg before she moves closer to me. Her face is inches from mine as she dabs the pink egg where she had put the concealer.
Her eyes are even more intense from this distance; they shimmer, catching the light in a way that makes them seem almost otherworldly. There’s a sharp intensity that pulls me in despite myself. But her blue eyes are not focusing on my brown ones.
They’re locked on her work, a quiet determination etched into her features. Her brows furrow slightly as she concentrates, her lips pressing together in an endearing and maddening way.
“Just some powder so it stays on,” she whispers, almost for herself. Her breath is warm, and I catch the faintest scent of her perfume. I swallow hard, the sound embarrassingly loud in the quiet. Our eyes meet for a beat, and she offers a soft smile. “I promise no one will notice.”
She thinks I’m nervous because someone might notice, but that’s not it. I don’t care what anyone notices. It’s her—she’s just so close, and it’s making my pulse race in a way I can’t control.
Her fingertip brushes against the corner of my eye, gently wiping away a trace of powder. The touch lingers for a heartbeat longer than she probably intended. I shouldn’t enjoy this so much, but damn it, I do.
If I’m blushing, at least my olive skin tone is doing me a solid by hiding it. Small mercies. Because she’s so close, and my brain? Yeah, it’s gone rogue—thinking things it definitely shouldn’t and forgetting how to function entirely.
Her lips part slightly, as though she’s about to say something, but the words don’t come. Instead, she blinks rapidly, breaking whatever had settled between us. Then she straightens, her eyes still holding mine, though something in them feels unsteady.
The hand that just burned its way across my skin dives back into her handbag, pulling out a small mirror.
“Here,” she says, handing it to me with a faint smile. “Now you don’t look as disheveled.”
The bruise looks much less visible now, almost completely gone. Makeup is magic.
I clear my throat. “Look at that. You made me look pretty again. Thank you.”
“No worries, I’m here for whatever you need, boss ,” she says with a chuckle before she catches the look on my face. Whatever you need, boss. Oh, I can think of a lot of things I need.
“I mean, of course, at work. Anything work-related. Anything I can help with here .” There’s a slight pink hue to her cheeks as she stumbles on her words before changing the subject. “Ehm, so is the contractor showing us around?”
She’s cute, and it probably shows in the big grin I have on my face, but I shove down all replies that aren’t professional. Because, well, I’m a professional guy. “Yeah, we’re going to go through the different bedrooms and common areas, so you’ll get a hint of the size. I thought it would be easier to see it with your own eyes rather than only a blueprint.”
“That’s great. I didn’t think I’d see it this early, but that's perfect, especially because I’m trying to get a consultation with Dominic Moretti.”
“Dominic Moretti?”
“Yes, I’d love to get some of his pieces in the common areas and maybe suites. But there’s a waitlist to be on the waitlist so I doubt I’ll get a meeting in this lifetime,” she says with a defeated tone, her shoulders sagging a bit.
Lucky for her, I know a way to contact him. “I know him.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I actually do. Very handsome man.”
The look on her face is absolutely priceless. Her mouth opens, then closes—like a fish out of water. Not a word comes out. Is she too stunned to speak? Or just trying to figure out how to tell me she doesn't believe me in an entirely new language?
“I’m not promising anything, but I’ll try to get you that meeting.”