Chapter Eleven
Zade
I’ve been walking on this treadmill for forty-five minutes, and I still feel like I’m crawling out of my own skin.
It’s just past seven. My phone keeps buzzing with back-to-back calls from Brian and two board members. I let them ring. I’m not in the mood to talk about permits or projected revenue. Not tonight.
The treadmill whirs under my feet, steady and fast. I’m barefoot, in gym shorts, no shirt. The kind of setup that looks like discipline from the outside. But this isn’t discipline. This is me avoiding everything.
Including her.
I tried sitting at the desk. Tried opening the reports, the floor plans, the zoning forecasts. But my eyes kept drifting to the edge of the screen. To that goddamn article I keep pretending not to open. The one with her in it.
Juniper. Mid-protest. Shirt rumpled. Paint smeared across her jaw. Hair yanked back like she didn’t care how it looked. Chin high. Eyes locked on the lens like she was daring it to flinch first.
I don’t know what it is about that photo, but it knocks something loose every time.
I bump the speed. It’s too fast for socks, too sharp on the skin, but I don’t stop. I need my body to feel the tension. I need my muscles to catch up to my thoughts or I’ll end up punching a wall.
She’s not the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Not in the way the world defines it. But that’s not what stays with me.
It’s the way she looked at me.
That slap wasn’t just anger. It was a mirror. She saw something in me that I’ve spent a lifetime trying to bury. And she hit it like she knew exactly where to aim.
I hated it.
I haven’t stopped thinking about it.
She doesn’t soften. Doesn’t sweeten her voice to keep the peace. She doesn’t care about the press, the power, the name. She sees right through it. She doesn’t want what I offer because she doesn’t believe men like me ever give without a cost.
And maybe she’s right.
I push harder, legs burning now. My breath picks up. Sweat rolls down my neck, sticks to my chest.
I try to think about something else. Anything else.
I scroll through my calendar. Dinner with the state rep. Zoom call with the Vancouver team. A charity gala I don’t want to attend but have t o show up for. None of it feels real.
She’s real.
Too real.
I catch myself picturing her again—not the protest version, but something quieter. Her sitting cross-legged on a couch, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, glasses low on her nose. No makeup. Just her.
That image ruins me.
Because I know what that kind of softness means. It means trust. It means letting someone in. And I don’t know if I’d survive it.
I’ve spent years building distance. Making sure no one gets close enough to find the fault lines. But she doesn’t need to be close. One look, and it’s like she already knows I’m cracked straight through.
I try to tell myself it’s just chemistry. Temporary. Something I’ll burn out of my system.
But I’ve burned through better distractions than her. And they’ve never stuck like this.
I bump the speed again.
Faster.
I shouldn’t want her. Not like this. Not with this much need and not enough sense. She’d hate the life I live. The schedule. The press. The constant pretending. She’d chew me up and spit me out the second she saw how much of it is just empty performance.
And I deserve it .
I’ve earned that kind of ending.
But something in me still wants her to look at me and not see what everyone else sees. Not the billionaire. Not the name. Not the chaos I drag behind me like a wrecking ball.
Just a man. Standing there. Wanting something honest for once.
I reach for my phone, fumble to silence another call—my foot slips.
It happens fast.
The belt jerks beneath me, and there’s nothing to grab. No handles. No frame to brace against. My shin cracks hard into the desk corner, and the next step lands wrong. I try to steady, but the treadmill drags my other foot. I twist sideways, knock into the chair, and slam to the ground.
I shout—more from the shock than pain. For a second, I think it’s fine. Just a bad hit.
Then I feel it.
A sharp, slicing burn along the top of my foot. I look down.
Glass.
The vase. I must’ve clipped it on the way down. One of the heavier pieces from the hotel’s attempt at tasteful design. Shattered now. Blood is already blooming through my sock.
“Shit,” I mutter, dragging myself off the floor.
The towel from earlier is s till slung over the back of the chair. I grab it, press hard into the wound. It stings like hell. My heel throbs. I ease into the chair, bracing one elbow on the desk, breathing through the pain.
There’s blood on the hardwood. A thin trail where I dragged my foot back. It’s not deep, but it’s messy.
Just like everything else.
I close my eyes, lean back, let the pain settle. Let it anchor me.
I didn’t fall because of her. But I wasn’t paying attention because of her.
And I hate that.
Because this was supposed to be simple. A project. A town. A fight I knew how to win.
Not… this.
Not someone who takes up space in my head without even trying. Not someone who makes me question whether the man I’ve become is someone I’d want her to meet.
I grip the edge of the towel tighter.
I don’t love her.
I don’t even know her.
I just can’t stop feeling like I already do.
“This woman is going to be the death of me,” I say to the empty room, still half in disbelief over what just happened.
I hobble to the bathroom an d grab a towel, wrapping it around my foot to stop the bleeding. I pick up my phone and call my driver.
“Get the car ready and bring it to the front of the hotel,” I manage, my voice tight.
I limp to the elevator, my foot throbbing with each step. The doors slide open, and I lean against the wall as it descends. When it reaches the lobby, I make my way outside and see the car waiting. I slide into the back seat, wincing as I sit down.
“Are you alright, Mr. Patterson?” He asks, clearly worried.
“Just get me to the hospital,” I tell my driver, frustration clear in my tone.
He nods, his face worried, as he starts driving, weaving through traffic with urgency.
????????????????????
The drive to the hospital is a blur of pain and irritation. As we arrive, the sterile scent of disinfectant hits me, mingling with the lingering aroma of my sweat and blood. The nurses usher me into a room, and a doctor arrives to assess the damage.
“You’re going to need a few stitches,” the doctor says, her tone brisk but professional as she examines the cut.
“Just do it,” I mumble, leaning back in the chair and staring at the ceiling. This day just keeps getting better and better.
After what feels like an eternity, I limp out of the treatment room, my foot band aged up like a prizefighter after a rough match.
The antiseptic smell clings to me as I head toward the exit, trying to block out the throbbing pain in my foot.
But just as I reach the waiting area, I see her—Juniper—sitting with a magazine, her eyes flicking up in surprise when she spots me.
Her cheeks flush, not with embarrassment but with anger, that familiar fire sparking in her eyes.
She’s wearing a fitted black dress that hugs her curves perfectly, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders like a waterfall at midnight.
I curse under my breath, knowing I should just walk away.
But something pulls me toward her—something I can’t quite resist.
I approach, trying to mask my limp with a casual stride and forcing a smile. “Fancy meeting you here,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant, but my voice comes out a bit strained.
Her eyes narrow, and she closes the magazine with a snap. “What are you doing here, Zade?”
“Stitches,” I reply, lifting my leg slightly. “Had a little accident. What about you?”
Her expression softens slightly as she glances at my bandaged foot, then back at me. “Waiting for my brother. He’s with the doctor.”
I glance at her, trying to muster the courage to ask her out.
I was just... thinking about her, for Christ’s sake.
I want to get to know her—maybe even understand what drives that fire inside her.
But when I open my mouth, the words come out all wrong.
“Nice dress. Did you wear it to impress the doctors, or do you just like getting attention? ”
She looks at me, clearly annoyed. “What do you want, Zade? Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
I wince internally, cursing myself for my stupidity. “I just thought we could maybe grab a bite sometime. Talk. You know, get to know each other better.”
Before she can respond, a doctor appears with her brother, Jacob, who looks even more fragile than before. Dominique, the doctor, gives us both a knowing look. “Jacob is ready to go, Juniper.”
Ignoring me, Juniper walks toward the exit with her brother, and I can’t help but follow. Outside, the rain is pouring down, drenching everything in sight. I see Juniper and Jacob huddling under the awning, clearly waiting for a ride.
“Need a lift?” I ask, trying to sound casual, though my heart is pounding in my chest.
“No, thank you,” Juniper snaps, her voice icy. “We’re waiting for an Uber.”
I glance at Jacob, who looks miserable standing in the cold, wet weather. “In this rain? Come on, let me help.”
Jacob looks at his sister, pleading with his eyes. “Juniper, maybe we should—“
“No,” she cuts him off sharply. “We’re fine.”
I step closer, my gaze locking onto hers. “It’s pouring, Juniper. You don’t need to be stubborn.”
She stands up straighter, facing me, the rain soaking her dress and making it cli ng to her body.
Her nipples are visible through the thin fabric, and I can’t help but stare.
She notices, her cheeks flushing with anger, and she folds her arms over her chest, glaring at me with rage and something else—something I can’t quite place.