Chapter 4
WHEN HE SAYS, “WELCOME TO YOUR BATTLEFIELD.” #FAKERELATIONSHIPGOALS
AXEL
“Dude, you were being a dick,” Ryker said, his lawyer voice in full effect.
“Certified asshole,” Jace agreed, eyeing me from the driver’s seat of his Mercedes.
“I knew you and Dakota had some kind of rivalry going,” Blake said. “You made that crystal clear when Jace was in the hospital.”
Christ. Just thinking about that whole nightmare made my stomach clench.
Jace getting attacked, all of us camping out in those horrible hospital chairs, wondering if he was going to make it.
Thank God for Scarlett swooping in like some kind of secret superwoman with a high-heeled weapon, or we might have lost him.
And then, because the universe had a sick sense of timing, guess who decided to show up the day Jace was getting discharged?
Dakota. Of course she did. If I’d had any clue that Scarlett and Dakota were buddies, maybe I would have braced myself, but no.
Instead, everyone got a front-row seat to what I was sure looked like the world’s most awkward soap-opera showdown.
“But that felt more like … I don’t know … competitive or something? This?” Blake shook his head. “This felt like you were aiming for her jugular. What’s the deal with you two anyway?”
Yeah. Wasn’t getting into that. “I wasn’t that bad,” I argued.
“You told her she’d have to live out of a suitcase,” Ryker shot back, eyebrows raised. “That’s nuclear.”
The four of us had piled into Jace’s prized car while the women followed in a moving vehicle Scarlett had rented earlier. The temporary reprieve from Dakota should have been a relief. Instead, I was trapped in a metal box with three human lie detectors who knew me too damn well.
“Thanks to her, I’m being forced into the one thing I despise the most. Every staged photo, every fake smile …
it’s everything I swore I’d never become.
” The words tasted bitter. Like the water my mother used to pour down the sink before company came over, replacing her personal bottle with vodka. Perfect tumbler. Perfect lies.
And now, I’d have to lie all over again.
I’d spent half the night staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself to just let it all collapse. If it were only me getting screwed over, I’d have torched everything and walked away without looking back. My wealth, my reputation. Fine.
But as I’d explained to Dakota, it wasn’t just me.
Knox had scraped together every dollar he had and thrown it at my start-up.
Not because he expected some massive return, but because he believed in what we were building.
That money was supposed to be his safety net when he got out.
His only shot at starting over. And the stubborn guy was too proud to take charity from any of us.
Knox wasn’t the only one depending on this company either.
After watching him navigate the system, seeing how society discarded anyone labeled imperfect, I’d built something to bridge that gap.
Phoenix Construction wasn’t just another building company.
We specialized in large-scale commercial renovations and infrastructure projects, but our workforce was primarily people coming out of the system.
We’d land contracts to renovate office buildings, restore historic properties, and build affordable housing developments.
The construction industry was perfect because it offered real skills, decent wages, and companies were starting to care about hiring practices that looked good in their ESG reports.
We also provided job placement, housing assistance, addiction counseling, and comprehensive reentry services for people leaving prison.
But the core business kept the lights on: we bid on multimillion-dollar contracts and delivered quality work.
Our crews learned everything from electrical to plumbing to project management.
The social mission attracted clients who wanted to feel good about their vendor choices, but we won contracts because we did excellent work at competitive prices.
We were one of the few companies that actually hired people with records, and those that we couldn’t take on, we didn’t stop until we found somewhere they’d get hired.
Most people walked out of prison with nothing. Empty pockets, empty promises. The lucky ones found a halfway house. The really lucky ones had family who would still claim them. But most would be back inside within six months.
If Phoenix Construction failed (by the way, I was not about to explain to Dakota how, why, and who had stolen clients, resulting in massive cash flow challenges), hundreds of employees would lose their jobs, and thousands more would lose their support system, their housing, their hope.
All because I couldn’t swallow my pride and play pretend.
So, yeah, I had to become everything I hated. “This whole charade … Dakota’s Instagram-perfect bullshit, the fake smiles, the public performance …”
I could see it all again. My mother at the country club, lipstick pristine, laughing at someone’s joke while her hand trembled around the stem of her water glass.
The tremor she’d blame on too much coffee.
The way she’d grip my shoulder in the parking lot afterward, nails digging in, whispering, “Not a word to your father,” about the flask I’d seen her tuck behind the tennis trophies.
“That performance killed my mom. And now I’m supposed to be the leading man in that same goddamn show. So, forgive me if I’m not thrilled about becoming everything I swore I’d never be.”
Blake let out a long breath. “Look, man, I get it. We all put on masks sometimes.” He shifted, his voice getting that serious edge it took on when he was about to drop some uncomfortable truth.
“But Dakota’s not your mother. She’s not crafting some perfect facade to hide the fact that she’s falling apart.
She’s building a brand, running a company.
It’s performance, yeah, but it’s not the same kind of performance that killed your mom. ”
The words hit harder than I expected.
“And staying this angry? Painting every woman who posts a pretty picture with the same brush?” Blake shook his head. “That’s not honoring your mother’s memory, man. That’s just guaranteeing you’ll spend the rest of your life pushing away anyone who might actually matter.”
I stared out the window at the Chicago skyline. The glass towers reflected the morning sun, all gleaming with promise and potential. Just like Dakota’s eyes when she’d apologized. Twice.
Shit. My past wasn’t her fault. And, I reminded myself, this was Knox’s little sister. The same sweet girl I’d met before Knox had gone away to prison.
Luckily, the guys dropped the subject, and we drove the rest of the way in merciful silence. When we reached my penthouse, I held the elevator doors open for Dakota with exaggerated chivalry.
As I did, I arched an eyebrow at the guys, as if to say, See? I’m holding the door open. Happy?
Dakota stepped past me, her floral scent wrapping around me like a deliberate attack on my self-control while her eyes swept across my space.
Yesterday, during that disaster of a PR meeting, she’d barely spared my place a glance.
Too busy plotting damage control or my death to notice the exposed brick walls or the vintage leather furniture I’d spent months hunting down.
But now, she was drinking it all in like she was memorizing every detail.
Taking inventory of what would become her temporary prison.
And mine. The way her gaze lingered on the floor-to-ceiling windows, traced the lines of my custom bookshelves, assessed the artwork I’d chosen with care …
it made something lodge behind my sternum.
I shouldn’t give a damn what she thought. This was my sanctuary, where every piece meant something, told a story, reflected who I actually was beneath all the corporate bullshit.
So, why was I holding my breath, waiting for her verdict like some desperate teenager showing off his bedroom?
“It’s pretty,” she said simply, without artifice or agenda.
The fact that I loved those two words flooded me with light and frustration at once.
Which was exactly what I’d been afraid of.
Having her here, in my space, breathing my air, touching my things, watching her pad around in whatever she wore to bed …
it was going to be so much harder than I’d convinced myself it would be.
And if she kept being … kind, considerate, human, I wasn’t sure I could hold on to this protective rage.
The anger was the only thing standing between me and complete emotional annihilation.
“Follow me,” I said, my voice clipped.
She obeyed, trailing behind me as I opened the bedroom door and gestured toward the master suite.
The king-sized bed dominated the room with all gray colors.
Gray bedspread, darker gray pillows. I liked gray.
Gray was safe. Black and white and all that.
I crossed to the dresser and opened the top left drawer.
“You can put your stuff in here.”
Her eyebrows furrowed. “You mean, in the dresser?”
“I mean, in this drawer.”
“I only get one drawer?” The beginnings of outrage simmered in her tone.
“I only have one bedroom.”
Crimson exploded on her cheeks as the implication hit her. Those freckles that dusted her nose and cheeks became more pronounced against the flush, and I tried—and failed—not to notice.
“This is a penthouse. Don’t penthouses have, like, multiple bedrooms?”
“This one has two. One of them is my office.” I kept my voice deliberately flat.
“Why didn’t you mention this yesterday?” Her voice rose an octave. “I’m not sleeping in the same room with you.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Sunshine. I’m not sleeping in the same room with you either.
” I leaned against the dresser. “I’ll sleep in here, and you’ll sleep in the office.
” Because giving her my room would be the first crack in a dam I’d spent years building.
One small kindness would lead to another, and another, until I forgot why keeping my distance was the only thing keeping us both safe.
Her attention swept to the door, then back to me. “But the office doesn’t have a bed.”
“It will by tonight.” The only reason I’d ordered the most comfortable mattress they had was because I didn’t want to listen to her complain.
And the only reason I got three varieties of comforters was because that office could go from cold to hot easily.
Had nothing to do with wanting her to sleep well. Nothing at all.
She swallowed, and I tried not to track the movement of her throat. “Look, I know this isn’t ideal, but I need more than one drawer. You have to be reasonable here.”
“Do I?” I stepped closer, enjoying the flash of uncertainty in her eyes. Except it wasn’t uncertainty. It was something else. A flicker of heat that made my pulse kick up. The same heat I’d seen when she’d put her hand on my chest.
She drew in a sharp breath through her nose, which was another thing I’d always found inexplicably appealing about her. The way she squared up for a fight, no matter the odds. “Yes, you do. Like it or not, we’re stuck in this situation, and the more you fight with me, the worse you’re making it.”
“Thanks for the TED Talk,” I quipped.
“I need more than one drawer,” she repeated.
“This is all I can spare. You can keep the rest in your boxes.”
Now her chest puffed up with indignation, and it took everything I had not to let my gaze drift down. She dropped the box she’d been holding and marched up to me, glaring with all the fury she could muster. Her tiny hands balled into fists at her sides.
It took everything I had not to let my lip curl up at how adorable she looked when she was angry. All fire and defiance, packed into a tiny frame of righteous fury.
God, she was so damn sexy. She barely came up to my shoulder—five-five to my six-two—but she had a presence that made up for it.
Strawberry blonde hair caught the light, and freckles scattered across her fair skin like someone had flicked a paintbrush.
She was toned in that yoga-instructor way, all lean strength, and those eyelashes.
.. I’d spent weeks convinced they were fake before I’d gotten close enough to confirm they weren’t.
“Let’s not do what we’ve always done, Axel.”
“What’s that, Sunshine?”
“Fight. Argue.”
I forced a smirk. “You think I’m going to go easy on you?”
“So, that’s how it’s going to be?”
“What’d you think? I’d roll out the red carpet? As if pretending to be engaged to you wasn’t bad enough, now you’re going to infest my home.”
“Infest.” Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Wow. Nice word choice.”
“Get used to it.” I leaned closer, close enough to see the flecks of light green in her hazel eyes.
“Last chance,” she warned, lifting her chin. “I’m offering a truce. We both stop being mean to each other and muddle through this.”
“Or?” I raised an eyebrow, genuinely curious where she was going with this.
Based on the faltering of her expression, she hadn’t thought this far ahead. But Dakota Blackwood had always been quick on her feet. She straightened her spine, trying to appear taller and sharpened her tone.
“Or we go to war.”
For one dangerous moment, I let myself imagine choosing door number one. Calling a truce. Letting her in, even just a little. But I couldn’t risk it.
I leaned down, trying not to notice the faint smell of roses in her hair or the fullness of her lips. “Welcome to your battlefield, Sunshine.”