Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
LUCAS
I mutter under my breath as I wrestle with the ribbon on Tyler’s birthday gift.
The others didn’t give me half as much trouble, but this one —this one — has been a pain since I picked it out.
It’s the smallest box, but somehow the hardest to wrap.
I try again, tugging gently, and finally—finally—it ties into a neat little bow.
I let out a soft sigh of relief, pressing the box close to my chest for a second before setting it down with the others.
Then I move to the far end of the balcony.
I’ve placed the small round table just enough distance from the railing, close enough to see the city lights shimmer below us, but not so close that it feels exposed.
There’s a wide view from up here, the kind of view people write songs about.
I drape a soft, ivory cloth over the table, smoothing the fabric carefully, then arrange the candles—tall, white, unscented—at its center, surrounding them with petals I had ordered just for this: soft blush tones and pale yellows, delicate like Tyler’s energy.
I use a tape to stick the “Happy Birthday” balloon banner, making sure it curves just the right way, not drooping too low.
Then, more balloons, pearl white, gold, and a few pastel pinks, clustered gently around the space.
A few are taped to the railing, swaying gently with the breeze.
It’s minimal, but dreamy. Warm. Just enough to feel special without being overwhelming.
Tyler has always talked about having a birthday dinner with a view of the city. Something quiet, something small, something just for the two of us. Every year, it never quite worked out. But this year… I knew I could make it happen.
I was hesitant at first. The idea of using Alexander’s balcony felt too much, too forward.
I didn’t want to seem like I was taking advantage.
It took a surprising amount of courage just to ask him, but then two days ago, I just had to.
I found him in his study and asked if I could use a small part of the balcony for Tyler’s birthday dinner.
He didn’t even look up from his laptop. Just shrugged and said,
“Do whatever you need. It’s yours anyway.”
I still don’t know what he meant by that.
With a sigh, I run my hand through my hair, stepping back to take in the space. The table is done. The gifts are wrapped and stacked neatly on a side table. It looks… nice. Better than I imagined. The kind of thing Tyler would smile at and say, “This is so me.”
A small smile touches my lips, then I feel it—his presence. Or maybe it’s just his scent that hits first, subtle but intoxicating. Clean, rich, like expensive cologne with a sharp edge. I turn slowly, already knowing what I’ll see.
Alex is dressed in a black suit, no tie, perfectly tailored to his frame.
He looks like sin and silence and every question I’ve ever been afraid to ask.
Dangerous and beautiful in the same breath.
I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing him dressed in a suit.
So composed, so devastating, like he belongs to another world and yet somehow still chooses to linger in mine.
“You’re staring,” he says softly, stepping out onto the balcony.
I blink, caught, flustered. He’s already walking toward me, his presence effortlessly commanding, like he belongs in every space he walks into. He stops just in front of me, eyes scanning my face with that quiet, unreadable calm.
“You’re also staring,” I murmur, trying to sound casual, but my voice betrays me, it’s too soft, too real.
He gives me that little smile, the one that curves only slightly at the corners of his mouth—the one he rarely shows anyone else.
“I can’t help it,” he says.
Then his gaze drifts from me to the setup I’ve spent all morning putting together. He takes it all in.
“It’s pretty.”
“You think so?” I ask, following his eyes to the view.
He nods slowly, then brings his gaze back to mine, and I feel the full weight of it settle into my chest like gravity.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For telling your chef to handle dinner and the pastries. I didn’t expect—”
“It’s nothing,” he interrupts gently. Then he slips his arms around my waist and pulls me into him, grounding me in that way only he can. His body is warm, solid. Familiar.
He leans in. I meet him halfway, my arms wrapping around his neck as our lips meet. The kiss is slow and steady, a quiet promise pressed between us. His cologne clings to his skin, and I breathe it in like it’s oxygen.
Sometimes I still can’t believe this is my life.
It’s been over a week since that solicitor showed up to talk to me about the trust fund, which to me is still a mind-numbing concept—and since Alex came back from his business trip, wrapped me in his arms like he’d never let go.
And he hasn’t.
Not once.
Even on days he goes to work and I escape to my apartment, he always finds a reason to come get me.
He shows up at my door like gravity itself pulled him there.
No matter how late it is, he brings me back to the penthouse every night.
And on the nights he doesn’t call his chef over, he cooks for me—which I always look forward to.
He fills in the spaces I didn’t know were still hollow. Buys me things even when I tell him not to. Pretends he’s shopping for himself, but we both know he’s not.
I can’t even admire something when we’re out without him sensing it and buying it for me. I swear, one day he’s going to buy me a baby just because I smiled at one.
Every night, we touch like we can’t get enough of each other, then fall asleep tangled up in each other’s arms. We still haven’t had sex yet. I know he wants to, and I don’t know what’s stopping him, but sometimes I feel like I’m the one hesitating, even though I think I am ready.
Still, waking up next to him every morning is one of my favorite things to do.
We finally break the kiss, and I try to catch my breath—his lips always leave me lightheaded every time. My hands slowly slide from around his neck, but I linger, still close, still drawn to him like a magnet I can’t switch off.
“I have to go to work, krasivy,” he murmurs, voice low and reluctant, but he doesn’t move. His eyes stay locked on my mouth like he’s memorizing the way it just felt against his.
“What time will you be back?”
“Late,” he replies, brushing a finger down my jaw. “I want you to enjoy the night with Tyler. Don’t worry about me.”
I nod. “Okay.”
Then he says, “I heard you muttering earlier—about forgetting to buy something?”
“Yeah,” I reply, “I need to pick up a nail polish set. His gifts aren’t complete without them.”
“Mike will drive you,” he says simply.
I smile—of course, he will. Mike isn’t just his driver, I’ve come to realize. He’s also a bodyguard, quiet and always lurking just close enough.
I unwrap my hands from Alex’s neck and take a small step back, but my chest is still tight with the heat of being close to him.
“See you later tonight,” I say.
The words leave my mouth softer than I mean them to, and the blush that rises to my cheeks tells on me. There’s an unspoken meaning behind what I just said, and we both know it.
Alex smirks. A slow, knowing curve of his lips. He leans in, kisses my cheek with maddening tenderness, and finally turns to leave.
I watch him walk away, my heart warm, body buzzing. Maybe it’s time I thank the universe for this happiness, for this version of peace I never thought I’d have. I only pray it doesn’t slip through my fingers.
***
Mike parks out front, and I already know the drill. He turns to me, eyebrows raised, a sign to ask me if he should join me inside, but I stop him before he even opens his mouth and type quickly on my phone:
Don’t worry. I’ll be in and out in less than 10 minutes.
He reads it, nods, and leans back in his seat like a watchdog on standby. I smile faintly and step out.
It’s loud inside the store. Sharp echoes of conversation, baskets squeaking, kids whining, music spilling overhead. My hearing aids make it worse sometimes, like everything’s too close and too far at once. But it’s okay. I’m used to it. I know how to filter it out.
I weave through the beauty aisle, scanning rows of nail polish sets and nail kits, fingers brushing over shimmering colors and neatly boxed tools.
There are so many brands, so many choices—glossy, matte, pastel—and the thought of how excited Tyler would be fills me with a quiet kind of joy. I can already see his grin.
I’m holding two different kits, comparing them, debating between a lavender shimmer and a deep emerald gloss, when I hear it—
“Lucas?”
The voice cuts through the air like a blade.
My body reacts before my mind can. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. My blood doesn’t run cold; it freezes. That voice. That fucking voice.
My fingers go still against the box. My breath catches halfway up my throat.
My heart doesn’t race. It stops just for a second, as if it had forgotten how.
I turn slowly, every movement stiff and mechanical, like my joints are locking into place without my permission.
Nate.
He’s standing near the end of the aisle.
The recognition slices through me like glass. My chest caves inward, lungs locked, and my whole body goes rigid. I can’t move. I can’t blink. I feel as though I’ve walked face-first into a nightmare and I’m trapped inside it. My stomach twists violently, and for a second, I think I might be sick.
Same face. Same smirk. That half-disgusting smile he wore when he and his friends ruined me, like it was all a joke to him. Like seeing me here, now, is some fucked-up coincidence he gets to laugh about later.
“It’s you,” he says again, voice low and crawling—slithering down my back like something rotten.
I feel my breath start to climb up my throat, tight and fast. My hands tremble, like my body’s remembering pain and violation before my mind can process it.
He starts walking toward me.