Chapter 27
April
The café Aidan Snow chooses is the kind of place that pretends it isn’t expensive.
Muted jazz. White cups with a subtle logo.
Baristas who look like they have trust funds and weird feelings about oat milk.
A wall of books no one has ever opened. It’s all warmth and polish, designed to make you lower your guard because nothing sharp could possibly happen in a room this tasteful.
I spot him immediately anyway.
He’s exactly what I remember from the screen.
Clean-cut, handsome in a way that feels engineered, the sort of man who could smile while signing your name on a document that ruins you.
He’s seated at a small table by the window, coat draped with casual precision, phone face down, hands folded like he’s waiting for an interview to begin.
When he sees me, he stands. Not rushed. Not eager. A controlled courtesy.
“April Swan,” he says, like my name tastes interesting. “Thank you for coming.”
I don’t shake his hand. I slide into the chair opposite him and keep my bag on my lap like a shield. “Let’s talk,” I say, voice clipped.
His mouth tilts, amused. “Straight to business. I respect that.”
Aidan signals for a server before I can refuse and orders as if he already knows what I drink. I correct him, and his eyes flicker with something like appreciation, like he enjoys pushback the way other men enjoy flattery. It’s too familiar.
He sits again, posture relaxed, gaze direct. “I’ll be blunt,” he says. “Your situation at Voss & Bartley is unstable.”
My spine tightens. “You don’t know my situation.”
“I know enough,” he replies softly. “Enough to understand you’re vulnerable. Enough to understand Anthony Voss isn’t the kind of man who lets go of control gracefully. And enough to see an opportunity where you might not.”
I stare at him, trying to decide whether I want to throw my coffee at his face or simply stand up and walk out. The problem is, I can’t afford to do either. Not emotionally. Not financially. Not when my life has turned into a series of doors that slam if I hesitate. “What opportunity?” I say.
He leans forward just a fraction, like we’re sharing a secret. “I’m offering you a role,” he says. “A meaningful one. Competitive compensation. Discretion. A clean exit from a messy environment.”
“I’m salaried for 300k a year right now,” I say, “That’s double my last salary. Why would you do that for me?”
Aidan’s eyes brighten. There it is—the question he wanted. The opening. “Because,” he says, voice smooth as a knife, “I believe in mutually beneficial arrangements.”
My stomach twists at the phrase, like my body recognizes it as a trap even if my brain wants to argue.
“You’ve been working closely with Anthony. You’ve seen how his business operates. You’ve been in rooms other employees haven’t. You’re… close.” His gaze flicks to my midsection for half a second before returning to my face. “And that closeness creates leverage.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I’m not leverage.”
Aidan’s smile widens, patient. “Everyone is leverage,” he says, gentle as if he’s explaining gravity. “The difference is whether you let someone else use you, or you use the situation first.”
I tighten my grip on my bag strap. “What do you actually want?”
He taps once on the table, a rhythmic little gesture that feels rehearsed. “I want Anthony’s star communications manager,” he says. “I want you. You’re the kind of talent you don’t let go unless you have to.” His eyes hold mine. “And I want the satisfaction of watching his narrative unravel.”
My chest goes cold. “So this is revenge.”
Aidan’s smile doesn’t change. “Call it strategy.”
“And what do I get,” I ask, forcing the words through a throat that feels too tight, “besides being a pawn in your war?”
“Security,” he says immediately. “Money. A future. And the pleasure of seeing a man who wronged you pay for it.”
Wronged me?
The phrase sinks claws into the softest part of my ribs because it’s close enough to the truth to be seductive. Anthony lied. Anthony decided things without me. Anthony offered me money when I needed honesty. Anthony made me feel like I mattered, and then made me feel like a clause.
For one poisoned second, revenge tastes sweet in my imagination.
Then the image shifts.
Anthony’s hand around mine on the sofa. His voice in my ear when I couldn’t breathe. His forehead kiss, the kind that felt like a promise.
And the sweetness rots on my tongue.
I swallow hard. “I don’t want revenge,” I say, surprised by how steady it comes out.
Aidan studies me like I’ve become more interesting. “You should,” he says softly. “It’s empowering.”
“It’s exhausting,” I reply.
His gaze sharpens. “Do you think that because you were… close?”
I push back in my chair. “I’m not discussing that.”
Aidan holds up one hand, placating. “Fair.” He slides a folder across the table anyway. Probably an offer letter. I don’t pick it up. I stand instead, letting my chair scrape back audibly.
Aidan doesn’t look surprised. He looks entertained, like he knew I’d do this and it was part of the calculus.
“You’ll think about it,” he says, not a question.
I force my voice flat. “I won’t.”
His smile stays. “We’ll see.”
I turn and walk out before my hands start shaking where he can see them.
Outside, the cool air hits like a punishment. My breath fogs, my heart pounding in a way that has nothing to do with the temperature. I make it half a block before I stop, pressing my palm to my stomach through my coat like I’m apologizing to the baby for being so lost.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out expecting—God knows what. Aidan. Angela. Another unknown number. A reminder that I’ve stepped into something ugly. But instead, it’s a calendar invite from the events team at V&B.
Voss & Bartley Charity Gala: Guest of Honour—A. Swan
I stare at it, uncomprehending, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less insane. Guest of honor. My name. Formal. Public. Unavoidable.
My throat closes. My first thought is ridiculous and immediate.
Anthony. Of course it’s Anthony.
This is him trying to fix the mess with something grand and controlled, a public gesture that says you belong with me without having to say the words that scare him.
My second thought is worse.
What have I done?
My phone buzzes again.
Anthony Voss:
[Attachment: 1 Image]
It’s me, sitting in the café. Aidan across from me, close enough to look intimate, his hand hovering over the folder. The kind of candid shot that lies by omission, cropping out the hostility, cropping out my rigid posture, cropping out the fact that I wanted to bolt.
Anthony Voss:
You said you’d be loyal.
My lungs stop working for a beat.
For a second, the street tilts. Noise rushes in, horns, footsteps, city life…then fades again as my pulse roars louder than all of it. My fingers go numb around the phone.
I can see his face in my mind as if he’s standing in front of me: jaw tight, eyes cold, the old Anthony coming back like a guillotine dropping. I can hear the unspoken part of the message, the part that isn’t written but is screaming anyway.
You betrayed me.
Just like his ex-wife did.
My stomach twists with guilt so sharp it feels physical. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want this. I just—I needed air. I needed an exit. I needed to know I wasn’t trapped. I needed—
I stare at the screen until my vision blurs, thumb hovering over the keyboard, trying to find words that don’t make it worse.
It wasn’t like that. Too weak.
I only met him because… Too defensive.
I’m sorry. Too small.
And then the worst truth rises up, choking. I went because I was hurt. I went because I wanted control. I went because part of me wanted to punish Anthony the way he punished me, without meaning to, without asking.
My throat tightens. I can’t type anything. If I respond right now, I’ll either beg or lash out, and both will give him exactly the wrong version of me.
So I do the only thing that feels remotely survivable.
I text Nicky.
Me:
Are you free tonight? I need your help to shop for a gown.
My hand shakes as I hit send.
Because that gala invite is a spotlight, and I can’t hide from it now.
Because if I don’t show up, I look guilty.
Because if I do show up, I have to face Anthony Voss’s eyes and whatever he thinks he saw in that photo.