Chapter Eight
KAMIYAH
Iwake slowly.
For a few seconds I don’t recognize the ceiling above me—the soft gray paint, the recessed lighting, the faint hum of the waves crashing against the shore beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Then memory settles in, heavy and bittersweet.
Caden’s penthouse.
Safety. Warmth. And everything I can’t let myself want.
I sit up carefully, the oversized T-shirt slipping down one shoulder.
His shirt. I borrowed it last night. The fabric smells like detergent and something faintly masculine and grounding.
I tell myself that’s the only reason I chose it.
That it had nothing to do with how it felt to be wrapped in something of his.
A lie. But a comforting one.
The apartment is quiet when I step into the hallway. Early morning light spills through the massive windows, painting everything a soft gold. It’s peaceful. Too peaceful. As if last night’s fear never happened.
My stomach growls, reminding me I barely ate yesterday. And cooking—being useful—sounds better than sitting here spiraling into thoughts of Caden’s arms around me, his voice rough with concern, the way he held me like he’d never stopped caring.
I make my way to the kitchen, trying not to think about how familiar the space feels.
Four years ago we’d sometimes meet in the hospital’s family kitchenette at ungodly hours, reheating terrible coffee and splitting stale pastries because neither of us could sleep.
Back then, grief and hope braided us together.
Now I’m pretending I don’t still feel those threads tugging.
I reach into the fridge and pull out eggs, spinach, and tomatoes. Something simple. Something that won’t betray that I’m shaking slightly.
As the skillet warms, I tie my hair into a messy knot, tug Caden’s shirt over one shoulder, and try—really try—to focus on the food.
He appears behind me before I hear him.
Bare feet. Sweatpants. Shirtless.
I nearly drop the spatula.
He stops in the doorway, hand braced against the frame, hair tousled from sleep. There’s stubble along his jaw, and the warm early light does the unfair thing of highlighting every line of muscle on his stomach and chest.
My mouth goes dry.
His eyes track slowly—too slowly—from my face… down my body… to the hem of his shirt resting high on my thighs.
His jaw tightens and his voice sounds rough from sleep. “You’re cooking?”
“I—yeah.” I clear my throat and try to smile like my pulse isn’t sprinting. “You made me dinner the first night, so… I thought I’d make breakfast to say thank you.”
Caden steps farther in, gaze still fixed on me like he’s cataloging every detail.
“You don’t have to thank me for anything,” he murmurs.
“Well… I want to.” My voice softens without permission. “You’ve done a lot.”
He moves behind me, so close I feel the heat of him at my back. Not touching. But close enough that my nerves spark like live wire.
He reaches around me to grab a mug from the cabinet, and his breath brushes my neck.
My knees almost buckle.
“You smell like sleep,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “And like my shirt.”
I swallow hard and force myself to keep scrambling the eggs. “It was comfortable.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
The words drop between us like a stone, sending ripples through the air. I turn slightly, meeting his eyes. And everything inside me tightens.
He looks tired. Concern still lingers in the set of his jaw, the faint shadows beneath his eyes. But something else flickers there too—something warm. Something dangerously close to wanting.
“Caden…” I whisper.
He steps closer, his hand bracing on the counter beside me.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he says, voice low.
“Like what?”
“Like you don’t want to run anymore.”
I inhale sharply.
The skillet sizzles behind me, but I can’t move. Not when he’s this close, not when his eyes dip to my mouth, not when everything I spent four years trying to bury rises inside me like a tide.
“Last night scared you,” he murmurs. “You deserve someone in your corner. Someone who’s on your side.”
“I know.” My voice shakes. “I do.”
His shoulders tense—not with anger but restraint. “I meant what I said,” he adds. “You matter to me.”
My heart stutters painfully. I look away. “Caden… this can’t…”
He gently grips my chin and turns me back to him. “Yes,” he says quietly. “It can.”
I don’t know who moves first. Maybe I lean in. Maybe he does. All I know is that suddenly his lips brush mine—soft at first, barely there, but enough to send a shiver crashing through me.
I gasp. He stills, giving me a moment to pull away.
I don’t. I tilt my face up, allowing his fingers to slide into my curls.
And the kiss deepens.
Slow. Warm. Excruciatingly tender.
The kind of kiss that holds years inside it—years of what-ifs, years of grief, years of longing neither of us said aloud.
He kisses me like he remembers exactly how I used to melt against him. Like he’s relearning me with careful, devastating precision. My hands slide up his chest, and he pulls me closer, his thumb brushing the curve of my jaw as he kisses me again, deeper, slower, heat curling through my stomach.
When we break apart, his forehead rests against mine.
His breathing is uneven.
Mine is worse.
His hand cups my cheek. “Tell me you didn’t feel that.”
I close my eyes.
Caden. God.
“I did,” I whisper. “That’s the problem.”
He huffs a soft, pained laugh. “Yeah. It is.”
Before either of us can say anything else—before we can untangle the mess we just created—his phone rings.
A sharp, piercing tone.
He freezes. “It’s my lawyer.”
My stomach drops.
He steps away to answer, but he keeps his eyes on me the whole time, as if afraid I’ll vanish if he looks away.
He presses the phone to his ear. “West.” Silence. Then his posture stiffens. His tone changes—sharper, deeper. “What do you mean the petition was challenged?”
My blood chills.
Challenged? What petition? I frown, trying to remember the conversations we’ve had over the past week. This doesn’t ring any bells.
He paces toward the windows, shoulders tense enough to snap. “What grounds?” he demands.
More silence.
Then—rage. Pure, barely controlled rage flashes across his face. “That’s impossible.” His voice drops dangerously. “They can’t file that—she has no standing.”
My breath turns to ash as realization hits.
They. She.
Someone from his company? Another lawyer?
No. Not with the way he’s glaring at the floor. Not with that particular tension in his jaw.
The answer must be devastating, because he closes his eyes for a long, slow second before whispering, “You’ve got to be kidding me. Figure out another play.”
My pulse spikes. “Caden?”
He ends the call slowly. Too slowly. Then he turns toward me fully, expression grim.
“That was my attorney,” he says, scrubbing his palm down his face. “When you left to see your sister, I had my lawyer file to have Priscilla’s guardianship of you revoked. You’re a responsible adult with no scandal, debts, or negative legal implications.”
I don’t breathe.
“The process should have been step one in you getting custody of Anna without having to tie yourself to me.”
“What happened?” I stepped closer.
“Someone filed a formal challenge against my petition.”
My stomach sinks, cold and sharp.
“My aunt…” My world tilts.
He steps closer, fire simmering in his gaze.
His voice hardens. “She’s trying to claim you’re mentally unstable,” he says.
Caden steps toward me, fire simmering behind his eyes—the kind of fire that warns my aunt has gone too far.
“My fear is that she’ll try to use her position at the hospital to accomplish it. ”
All because I stepped out of line. The room spins. And I grip the counter to steady myself. But Caden steps forward, catching my arm gently.
“We’re not letting her win,” he says, voice low and solid. “No matter what it takes.” His fingers tighten just slightly around my arm—not possessive, not demanding.
Grounding.
“We face this together,” he says. “Understood?”
I lift my eyes to his.
And in that moment—terrifying and fragile and full of consequences—I know one thing with absolute clarity: I’m already in too deep.
But I nod.
Because I don’t have a choice. “Together,” I whisper.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because your aunt just declared war.” His jaw sets with fierce determination and I realize, so have we.
And for the first time, I wonder if this fake engagement is becoming something else entirely.