CHAPTER NINETEEN
WYNTER
“Interesting choice,” comes Ray’s voice behind me. He startles me, but I keep my back to him, dragging the brush across the wall in slow, steady strokes. “Green?” he continues, amusement lacing his tone.
It’s olive, but I don’t bother correcting him.
“I have people that can do this, you know,” he adds.
I ignore him.
When I was younger, my parents decorated our house themselves. I remember music playing, my mum laughing, my dad pretending he knew what he was doing. It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours. Those moments, those memories, they’re something I hold dear now.
You don’t get that when you pay someone.
“Wynter?” he presses. I dip the brush back into the paint and carry on, hoping he’ll take the hint. He doesn’t. “You can’t ignore me. We need to talk about what I said.”
Dickhead. That’s the last thing I want to do.
“I’m not planning to take your baby from you,” he says, his tone shifting, more serious now. “I want us to raise him or her together.”
That’s not what he said. I heard him. Every word.
“Wynter,” he tries again, softer this time. “Let’s just talk about this like adults, yeah?”
There it is. That dig about the age gap. I grit my teeth and keep painting.
“Jesus, you are so frustrating,” he growls. “I don’t know what to say to get through to you. You’re carrying my child and I can’t even fucking talk to you.”
I place the tin down harder than necessary and turn, heading for the door. I’m not doing this.
His hand wraps around my wrist before I make it two steps. “No,” he snaps. “You’re not walking away without talking about this.”
I glance down at where he’s holding me, then back up at him.
“What do you want me to say?” I ask, my voice cold. “Tell me, Ray. I’ll say it. Would that make this easier for you?”
His jaw tightens. “I want you to hear me out,” he says. “I want you to let me explain what you overheard.”
I yank my wrist free. “I heard you perfectly fine,” I fire back.
“And let me make something very clear—I am not the same girl that walked into this apartment a year ago.” I step closer, my heart hammering but my voice steady.
“You will never take my child from me. And if you try . . .” I tilt my head slightly, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I’ll slit your throat.”
Silence crashes between us as my chest heaves with anger. The realisation that I mean every single word, doesn’t even scare me, because I’ll die trying to protect my child.
We stare at each other, neither of us backing down.
Then he moves fast. His hands come up, cupping my face, and before I can react, his mouth crashes against mine.
It’s not gentle, or careful, but desperate.
His tongue forces past my lips like he’s trying to take something back, like he’s trying to prove something to us both. My breath catches, my body betraying me instantly—heat rushing through me, my toes curling against the floor as everything I’ve been holding back surges to the surface.
For a second—
just one— I almost give in.
My fingers twitch at my sides, wanting to grab him, wanting to feel him properly, wanting to lose myself in something familiar. Something dangerous. Then it hits me.
Everything he said.
Everything he did.
And I shove him hard. “Don’t,” I snap, my voice shaking as I put space between us.
He stumbles back slightly, just as stunned as I am. We stare at each other, both breathing too fast.
“That doesn’t fix anything,” I add, wiping my mouth like I can erase the way it made me feel.
His chest rises and falls, his jaw tight, eyes dark with desire. “Go to bed,” he mutters roughly, dragging a hand through his hair. I frown. “Lock your door,” he adds, his voice low, strained. “And don’t open it. No matter what I say. No matter how much I knock.”
There’s something dangerous in the warning.
“Ray—”
“Just do it, Wynter.”
I rush to my room and slam the door behind me, twisting the lock with shaky fingers before leaning back against it.
My eyes fall closed as I try to steady my breathing.
That kiss . . .
It shouldn’t have affected me like that.
I press my head harder against the door, frustration bubbling up inside me. My body had reacted instantly—like it remembered him, like it didn’t care about everything that’s happened between us.
And that makes me angry.
I drag a hand through my hair, pushing away from the door and pacing the room.
“I am not weak,” I mutter under my breath. Not anymore. I won’t let him kiss me and think everything is fixed. I won’t let him touch me and undo all the progress I’ve made.
But the memory lingers anyway—his hands, the urgency, the way for a split second I almost . . .
I stop pacing, pressing my lips together.
“No,” I whisper, firmer this time. I won’t go backwards when I’m finally moving forwards.
A sharp knock makes me jump, my heart lurching into my throat. I freeze, holding my breath, staring at the door like it might give me away.
“Wynter,” Ray mutters from the other side.
My jaw tightens. “No, Ray,” I snap, louder this time. “Go to bed.”
There’s a pause. “I just—”
“You just need to sleep,” I cut in, not giving him the chance to finish. Because if he starts explaining, if he softens his voice the way he does . . .
I might open that door.
I hear him sigh heavily, the sound muffled but weighted. “I haven’t slept since Anika left,” he admits quietly. “Not properly.”
I close my eyes, pressing my palm flat against the door, hating that a part of me cares.
“You’re not coming in,” I say, forcing steel into my voice. “I’m not stupid, Ray.”
Silence stretches between us. “You can’t say all that shit,” I continue, my voice cracking despite my best efforts, “and then come knocking on my door like I’m just going to .
. . what? Forget it?” I shake my head, even though he can’t see me.
“Jump into bed with you?” I let out a hollow laugh.
“No. I’m done with that.” I sigh. “And I’m done making the same mistakes with you. ”
The words hang there, heavy and final. I stand there, listening. Holding my breath.
And then I finally hear him moving away, and I relax.
That wasn’t so hard . . .was it?
The next morning, the sound of banging wakes me and I sit up looking around in a daze.
It’s coming from somewhere inside the apartment. The kitchen?
I hesitate for a second before pushing back the covers and slipping out of bed, wrapping my dressing gown around me as I head for the door.
I open it quietly and follow the noise into the kitchen and stop in the doorway.
Ray hasn’t seen me yet.
The kitchen is an absolute disaster. There’s flour across the counter, eggshells scattered like he’s just thrown them around, and something is smoking slightly on the hob.
My eyes fall on him. He’s shirtless with his hair a mess. And he’s completely focused on whatever he’s attempting to make as he sings under his breath, completely off-key.
I press my lips together, trying not to laugh. It’s . . . oddly endearing.
He turns suddenly, reaching for something behind him and freezes when he spots me. The spatula slips from his hand, clattering against the counter.
“Jesus—” he breathes, startled.
I bite back a smile. “Morning.”
His eyes flick over me quickly before he looks away, running a hand through his already messy hair. “I didn’t hear you come in,” he mutters.
“Clearly,” I say lightly, stepping further into the room and glancing around. “You’ve been . . . busy.”
His mouth twitches, but he doesn’t smile properly. “I was trying to make breakfast,” he says, like that explains the chaos.
“Trying being the key word,” I reply. “I thought you had people for this?”
He shrugs, suddenly looking vulnerable. “I guess I wanted to be the one to make you breakfast.”
A small silence settles between us as I process his words.
So, I break it. “You know,” I say, leaning against the counter, “this reminds me of something.”
He glances at me cautiously. “Yeah?”
“The first time I tried to cook for you,” I say, unable to stop the small laugh that escapes.
His brow furrows then slowly lifts as the memory clicks into place. “Oh god,” he mutters.
“Exactly,” I grin. “Catherine had that brilliant idea that we should ‘bond’ like normal boss and employee.”
He huffs out a quiet breath. “I walked in and the kitchen looked like a crime scene,” he adds.
“Rude.” I laugh. “I was trying my best to make you dinner.”
“I didn’t realise how many pots and pans I owned until that day.”
I shrug, smiling despite myself. “Well, you weren’t exactly impressed.”
“You served me something I couldn’t identify,” he says dryly.
“I followed Catherine’s recipe,” I insist. He gives me a look. “Well, almost,” I correct, laughing again.
The moment lifts something between us, like none of the complicated stuff exists. His eyes linger on me with something unreadable in his expression, like he’s trying to hold onto the moment.
I push away from the counter, turning towards the mess. “Well,” I say lightly, avoiding his eyes, “at least I know I’m not the worst cook in this apartment anymore.”
His breath hitches out in something close to a laugh. “Low bar,” he mutters.
“Very,” I agree.
RAY
I scrub a hand over my face and look at the state of the kitchen. There’s flour everywhere. A burnt pan in the sink and eggshells on the counter.
It’s not my finest work.
“Go shower,” I say, nodding towards the hallway. “Get dressed. I’ll sort breakfast.”
Wynter arches a brow. “You? Sort breakfast?”
“I’ll have the chef do it,” I correct, already pulling my phone from my pocket. “Before you get food poisoning.”
She huffs out a laugh. “Smart move.”
“And hurry,” I add. “You look like you slept in a hedge.”
“Charming,” she mutters, but there’s a smile on her face as she disappears down the hallway.
The second she’s gone, I get to work. I clear the counters, wipe everything down, dump the burnt disaster into the bin, and open the windows. By the time the chef arrives, the kitchen looks like nothing ever happened.
Perfect.