Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
T he break-in aftermath consumes the next three days. Police statements. Insurance adjusters. Furious clients. My reputation hangs by a thread, saved only by the security company confirming that the alarm was indeed set after my departure, but deactivated hours later with the correct code.
Someone had the code.
Someone who shouldn't have.
Jeremy calls. Texts. Stops by my office with coffee and concern. I accept the coffee and deflect the concern, keeping our interactions brief, professional. I act as if I hadn’t had the best sex of my life. Like the connection between us wasn’t there. Because, I’ve never had anything like this happen in my career until I let myself be distracted.
"Are we going to talk about what happened between us?" he finally asks on the third day, cornering me in my office after hours.
I look up from the insurance paperwork spread across my desk. "Now isn't a good time, Jeremy."
"It never is." He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "You're pulling away. I can feel it."
He's right. I am. Because waking up in his bed felt too good, too right and then reality came crashing down with that text message. A stark reminder that mixing business and pleasure can have consequences. I was distracted during the showing and although I had set the alarm, someone had broken in with the code. I wondered if someone watched me put the code in… while my mind was thinking about how sexy Jeremy was and what the night ahead might bring.
"I'm dealing with a professional crisis," I say, gesturing to the paperwork. "The Richardson break-in could have ended my career."
"But it didn't. You did everything right." He moves closer, perching on the edge of my desk. "This isn't about the break-in, Gina. This is about us."
"There is no 'us,'" I say automatically, the words tasting like a lie. "What happened was... it was a mistake."
The hurt that flashes across his face makes my chest ache, but I push through. This is necessary.
Safe.
"You don't mean that," he says quietly.
"I do." I stand, needing distance, movement. "Jeremy, we got caught up in the moment. The excitement of the project, old feelings, nostalgia… whatever it was, it clouded my judgment. “We didn’t work then and we won’t work now."
"Clouded your judgment?" His voice hardens. "Is that what you think happened between us? Cloudy judgement?"
I avoid his eyes, focusing instead on straightening papers that don't need straightening. "I think we both got carried away. And as a result, I made a professional mistake that nearly cost me everything."
"You didn't make a mistake, Gina." He stands too, his frustration palpable. "The security company confirmed the alarm was set. Someone else disabled it hours later."
"That's not the point." I finally look at him. "The point is that I was distracted. By you. By us. By whatever this is." I gesture between us. "And I can't afford distractions. I’ve worked too hard to lose everything."
Jeremy steps closer, the desk between us like a moat I'm desperately trying to maintain. "So that's it? One night together and you're already running scared?"
"I'm not scared," I lie. "I'm being practical. The deal closes tomorrow. After that, we go our separate ways, like we agreed. You like to go on… to leave, after all."
"We never agreed to that," he says quietly. "In fact, I'm pretty sure my exact words were that I wanted a second chance with you. That I've spent thirty years trying to get back to you."
The sincerity in his voice makes something in my chest crack. I want to believe him. God help me, I want to fall into whatever he's offering. But I've spent too many years building walls, protecting myself, making sure I never need anyone too much.
"I need time," I say finally. "Space to think. To figure out what I want."
Jeremy studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. "Okay. Time. Space. I can give you that." He moves toward the door, then pauses. "But don't take too long, kitten. I've already waited thirty years for you. My patience isn't unlimited."
After he leaves, I sink back into my chair, the office suddenly too quiet, too empty. My phone buzzes with a text.
Sydney: Did you talk to Jeremy? Is he coming to dinner on Sunday?
I hadn't even thought about the fact that my daughter was already attaching to him, including him in future plans. Another complication. Another reason to be cautious.
Me: Not this Sunday,
I text back.
Work stuff. Complicated.
Her response is immediate:
Mom. Don't screw this up. He’s perfect for you.
Out of the mouths of babes.
* * *
The deal closes without a hitch. Papers signed, hands shook, champagne popped. Jeremy and I maintain perfect professional courtesy, our night together like a shared secret neither acknowledges. His team whoops and celebrates while mine exhales in collective relief. The biggest deal of the year, seamlessly executed. The commission alone would allow me to take a year or two off, if I wanted. I don’t. It’ll also cover buying my partner out, which I do want. My end goal all these years, own my own real estate and brokerage firm.
Afterward, Jeremy catches me in the hallway outside the conference room. "Congratulations," he says, formal but warm. "You were amazing in there. I couldn’t have done it without you. Truly, kitten. You are phenomenal."
"Thank you." I shuffle the folders in my arms, needing something to do with my hands. "So, I guess this is it."
His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Is it?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with everything unsaid. I open my mouth, not sure what will come out. I can’t decide between an apology, an invitation, or a goodbye, when his assistant appears and interrupts us.
"Mr. Ford, the investors are waiting in your office," she says apologetically.
"I'll be right there," he tells her, then turns back to me. "Gina?—"
"You should go," I say quickly. "They're waiting."
He looks like he wants to argue, but nods instead. "We're not finished, you and I. Not by a long shot."
* * *
The Naughty Girls are not impressed with my decision to pull back.
"Let me get this straight," Jackie says during our weekly video call. "You slept with him?—"
"It was amazing," I interrupt, because there's no point lying to these women.
"And then you freaked out because of a break-in that wasn't even your fault…"
"It could have been my fault," I interject. "I was distracted."
"And now you're, what? Just going to pretend it never happened?" Jackie finishes, ignoring my interruption.
Put like that, it does sound ridiculous.
"I'm not pretending it never happened," I defend myself. "I'm just... processing."
"You're hiding," Elizabeth corrects gently. "It's what you do when things get real. You retreat."
I scowl at my laptop screen. Elizabeth is my closest friend in the group. She knows me better than the rest of the women. We are of similar ages and backgrounds. I regret the words before they even finish coming from my mouth. "I don't need a psychological evaluation."
"You need something," Christine mutters. "Like maybe another night with Mr. Silver Fox Daddy Dom Developer that includes a spanking for what you are putting him through."
The nickname makes me laugh despite myself. A flush creeps up my neck as I remember the way Jeremy had looked at me that night in his apartment, the command in his voice when he told me exactly what he wanted, how he wanted it. The way I'd responded, yielding control in a way I never do in my daily life. The way he had me call him, Daddy.
"It doesn't matter if he’s a Daddy or not," I say. "I've made my decision."
"A stupid decision," Bridgette says.
"A fear based decision," Elizabeth corrects gently.
They're both right, but I'm not ready to admit it.
* * *
A week passes. Then two. Jeremy respects my request for space, though he texts occasionally. The texts are neutral, friendly messages that never push for more than I'm ready to give. Pictures of the development progress. A congratulatory note, when my firm wins a prestigious listing. Nothing that demands a response, but each one a reminder that he's still there, still waiting.
I'm in the middle of showing a new listing, a sprawling estate that needs work but has potential, when my phone buzzes with a text from him.
Jeremy: Just landed a new waterfront property. Thought of you immediately. Dinner to discuss?
Business. Safe. Professional. I could say yes to that or, I could keep myself distanced and refer him to a colleague.Before I can respond, I hear a noise from the back of the house. There’s a thump, then the sound of breaking glass. My client is still out front, taking a call.
I should go get him. Call the police. Follow protocols.
Instead, I slip my phone into my pocket and move toward the sound, curiosity overriding caution. The property has been empty for months; probably just a raccoon or squirrel that found its way in.
The back door is ajar, swinging slightly in the breeze. I don't remember leaving it open. In fact, I'm certain I locked it when we arrived.
A chill runs down my spine. The break-in at the Richardson place flashes through my mind. But that was different. That was a high-value property with expensive art. This place is empty, staged with rental furniture.
Still, I should be careful. I pull out my phone to call the police, but there's no signal. Just my luck.
I hesitate at the threshold of the sunroom where the noise came from. The smart thing would be to go back to the front, get my client, leave, report this. But if it's just an animal, I'll look foolish. And if it's not…
Be brave, I tell myself, and step into the room. It’s just a raccoon. It wouldn’t be the first time.
The glass coffee table is shattered, shards scattered across the polished floor. A picture frame has fallen from the wall. But no animal, no intruder that I can see.
I exhale slowly, relief washing through me. Just the wind, probably. The door wasn't latched properly, it blew open, knocked things over. I’d locked it because the owner said it had a habit of blowing open if it wasn’t secured… I must not have secured the deadbolt.
As I turn to go back to the front of the house, I catch movement in my peripheral vision. It’s too large to be an animal. My heart leaps into my throat as a figure steps out from behind the curtains. A man in dark clothing, his face obscured by a ski mask.
I freeze, terror rooting me to the spot. He's between me and the door. Between me and safety.
"Don't scream," he says, his voice muffled by the mask. "Give me your purse, your jewelry, your phone and everything you've got."
My mouth is too dry to scream even if I wanted to. I fumble for my phone, but my hands are shaking so badly I drop it. It skitters across the floor, stopping at the intruder's feet.
He bends to pick it up, and as he does, I see something glinting at his waistband. I can’t tell if it’s a knife or a gun, I can't tell which. Doesn't matter. Either one could kill me.
"Jewelry too," he demands. "That watch looks expensive."
I unfasten my watch with trembling fingers, along with the diamond studs in my ears, both gifts to myself after closing major deals. Symbols of my independence, my success. I didn’t need a man to buy me jewelry or flowers. I could purchase them myself. I’m not feeling very independent right now.
"Take them," I say, voice barely a whisper. "Take everything, just please don't hurt me."
He snatches the items from my outstretched hand, then gestures toward the rear of the house. "Now move. Into the bedroom."
Ice floods my veins. The bedroom. No. Whatever he's planning, I'm not making it easier for him.
"My client is right outside," I lie, fighting to keep my voice steady. "He'll be coming in any second. He's a Marine veteran."
The intruder hesitates, glancing toward the front of the house.
"I said move," he repeats, but there's uncertainty in his voice now.
I take a step back, then another, edging toward the broken window. If I can get outside, I can scream, run, and find help. If I get close enough, maybe I can scream before he has a chance to pull whatever weapon I saw glittering.
He lunges forward suddenly, grabbing my arm with bruising force. I react instinctively, driving my knee up between his legs, with every ounce of strength I possess. Thank God for those self-defense classes Sydney insisted we take together. We’d practiced and practiced until the movement became muscle memory… for times like these.
He doubles over with a howl of pain, releasing me. I don't wait. I turn and run, scrambling through the broken doors into the backyard.
"Help!" I scream, my voice finally finding its power. "Someone help!"
I hear him behind me, cursing, stumbling in pursuit. I run faster than I've ever run in my life, my heels sinking into the soft lawn, slowing me down. I kick them off without stopping, bare feet flying over grass, then gravel, then concrete as I reach the side of the house.
I round the corner to the front yard, still screaming, and nearly collide with my client and impossibly, miraculously… Jeremy.
"Gina?" Jeremy's face transforms from surprise to alarm in an instant. "What happened? Are you hurt?"
"There’s a man in the house," I gasp, pointing back the way I came. "He’s wearing a mask and he — he tried to?—"
Jeremy doesn't wait for me to finish. He pushes me gently toward my client, then sprints toward the side of the house, phone already at his ear.
"No! Don't!" I try to call after him, but he's already gone. My client, thankfully more sensible, pulls me toward his car, already dialing 911.
"Are you okay?" he keeps asking. "Did he hurt you?"
I shake my head, unable to form words past the terror still choking me. All I can think about is Jeremy, running toward danger instead of away from it. Jeremy, who might be facing a man with a weapon. Jeremy, who might get hurt because of me.
Time stretches, distorts. My client wraps his suit jacket around my shoulders. I'm shaking, I realize distantly. In shock, probably.
Minutes later… or has it been hours? I can't tell. The police cars arrive, lights flashing. And then Jeremy emerges from the side of the house, unharmed.
"He got away," he tells the officers who rush to meet him. "Went over the back fence. Black clothing, ski mask, medium build."
As the police fan out to search the property, Jeremy comes to me, kneeling beside the car where I'm sitting with the door open, feet on the driveway. His hands frame my face, eyes scanning for injuries.
"Are you hurt?" he demands, voice rough with concern.
I shake my head. My adrenaline is crashing, leaving me light-headed and nauseous.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“I heard a noise in the house. I thought it was an animal so I went to check.”
"What were you thinking?" he scolds gently, as the worry in his voice sharpens to anger. "Going to investigate a noise by yourself? In an empty house? Without telling anyone?"
The criticism stings, especially because he's right. I was reckless, stupid. I put myself in danger.
"I… I thought it was an animal," I manage finally. “I’ve been alone for years. Independent. Able to deal with anything that comes my way. It’s happened before. Animals. Wind. Things fall over…”
"You could have been killed." His hands tighten on my shoulders, a slight shake emphasizing his words. "Do you understand that? If anything happened to you?—"
“If anything happened to me? What? What, Jeremy? You left, without thinking about what would happen to me, out in the world alone thirty years ago. Why do you care now?”
“I was recruited, Gina.” He looks shocked, like he can’t believe he just said that out loud.
“Recruited?” What was he talking about?
“Remember the 1993 World Trade Center bombing?”
“How could I forget?” We’d lived through both bombings in our lifetimes, among other things.
“A year after it happened, the CIA discovered another terrorist plot. They recruited me senior year in college because of my fluency in both Farsi, Pashto, Dari and Arabic.” Learning foreign languages came easy to Jeremy. He loved a challenge and had a goal of breaking the world record for most languages spoken. At the time, it was fifty-eight. He’d only made it a quarter of the way to his goal when he’d disappeared. He’d been a natural athlete, playing multiple sports in high school. I could imagine him as a CIA officer.
“CIA?” I parrot. “Really? And you couldn’t contact me? Tell me you were okay? Breaking up with me would have been better than ghosting me.”
“Everything happened so quickly. I’d intended to call you but the mission became dangerous and I had to go undercover… I know I was wrong, kitten. I know I should have tried harder to reach out. When it was all done and over, I looked you up. You were married and I thought you were better off without me. I know better now. Did you forget what I said to you last month? Before we had sex?”
“You said a lot of things that night.”
“I told you that I was reclaiming you, that I wouldn’t be going anywhere this time. I told you that you belong to me and that I wasn’t going to let anything get between us again. I meant that, kitten. Anything including you. I’ve been patient, more patient than I’ve ever been in my life. Today, my patience is gone. You are mine and–”
He breaks off, pulling me against his chest, holding me so tightly I can feel his heart hammering against my cheek. I cling to him, the solid reality of him keeping me anchored when I feel like I might float away on a tide of delayed terror.
"How did you even know I was here?" I ask when I can speak again.
"I was on my way to the office when you didn't respond to my text," he explains. "I remembered you mentioning this showing yesterday, so I thought I'd drop by, see if you wanted to get coffee after. I had just pulled up when I heard you screaming."
"Thank you," I whisper against his shirt.
His hold on me was gentle, one hand stroking my hair. "I will always come for you, kitten. Always."
The police take our statements. They find my purse and phone, but not the watch or earrings. My client, shaken but compassionate, offers to reschedule the showing. I numbly agree, too drained to even think about work right now.
"I'm taking you home," Jeremy says when the officers finally let us go. It's not a question.
I don't argue. Can't even imagine being alone right now, my nerves still vibrating with leftover fear. So, I let him lead me to his car, let him open the door for me, let him take care of me in a way I haven't allowed anyone to do in years.
At my house, he insists on checking every room before letting me inside. Then he makes tea that I don't drink and sits beside me on the couch, not touching unless I initiate, just... being there.
"You're safe now," he says quietly. "I won't let anything happen to you."
The words break something inside me, a dam I've maintained for thirty years, holding back need, vulnerability, trust. I curl into his side, letting the tears come, letting him see me at my weakest.
His arms come around me, strong and sure. "I've got you, kitten. I've got you."
And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I let someone else be strong for me. Let someone else carry the weight, just for a little while.
When the tears finally stop, I look up to find him watching me with a tenderness that makes my heart ache.
"Stay," I whisper. "Please."
He brushes a kiss against my forehead. "I’m not going anywhere, ever again."