19. Clive
Clive
I arrive at Lucien's fifteen minutes early, a habit I've never been able to break. The restaurant is dimly lit, intimate, with the kind of old-world charm that feels increasingly rare in Manhattan. I requested a corner table—privacy seems essential tonight.
The ma?tre d' recognizes me immediately. "Mr. Bishop, welcome back. Your table is ready."
I follow him to the secluded corner, settling into the leather banquette that faces the door. I want to see Becca the moment she walks in. These two days without her have been... difficult. After a week of waking up beside her, the emptiness of my bed has been almost unbearable.
"Scotch, neat," I tell the waiter, needing something to steady my nerves. I'm not usually an anxious man—board meetings, multi-billion dollar negotiations, none of that rattles me. But the thought of seeing Becca again has my heart racing like a teenager's.
The scotch arrives, and I take a slow sip, letting the warmth spread through my chest. What if she's had second thoughts? What if the reality of New York has made her reconsider what happened in Cozumel? I wouldn't blame her. The age difference, Jack, the complications that come with my position—it's a lot to ask anyone to take on.
And then she's here, standing in the doorway, scanning the restaurant. My breath catches at the sight of her. She's wearing a simple black dress that hugs her curves perfectly, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. She looks nervous, uncertain, but so beautiful it makes my chest ache.
Our eyes meet across the room, and for a moment, everything else falls away. Then she smiles—that genuine, radiant smile that first drew me to her—and I know, whatever doubts I had, whatever complications lie ahead, this is right.
I stand as she approaches, resisting the urge to pull her into my arms. Public discretion seems wise, at least for now.
"Hi," she says softly, a slight tremor in her voice.
"Hi yourself," I respond, taking her hand briefly before helping her into her seat. "You look beautiful."
A blush spreads across her cheeks. "Thank you. You too. You look handsome, I mean."
I smile at her nervousness, finding it endearing. "I've missed you," I admit, returning to my seat. "Two days felt like two weeks."
"I missed you too." She fiddles with her napkin, not quite meeting my eyes. Something's off.
"Becca," I say gently, "what's wrong?"
She looks up, surprised. "How do you always know?"
"I pay attention," I say simply. "Something's bothering you. Is it... us? Have you changed your mind about us?"
"No," she says quickly, reaching across the table to touch my hand. "No, it's not that. It's..." She takes a deep breath. "Jack found having lunch with Holly earlier today."
My jaw tightens involuntarily. Of course he did. "What did he want?"
She withdraws her hand, and I immediately miss her touch. "He told me some things about you. About your divorce from Kay. About your business." Her eyes finally meet mine, searching. "He said you drove Kay to depression, that you purposely destroyed her mentally to get a better settlement."
I set my scotch down carefully, anger building in my chest—not at Becca, but at Jack and his deliberate manipulations.
"He also said you've been investigated for sexual harassment twice, and that you..." her voice drops to a whisper, "that you only pursued me to hurt him. That this is some kind of twisted revenge against your stepson."
"And do you believe him?" I ask quietly, studying her face.
"No. Oh, I don't know what to believe," she admits. "That's why I'm here. I want to hear your side."
The waiter approaches, but I wave him away with a subtle gesture. This conversation needs no interruptions.
"First, thank you for giving me the chance to explain," I say, leaning forward. "Jack is lying, Becca. Almost everything he told you is fabricated."
"Almost everything?"
I nod. "The divorce was difficult, yes. But I never drove Kay to depression—she wanted half my company and she feigned depression to garner sympathy from the court, but she had no history of it. Beside, she signed a prenup. The settlement was generous—far more than the prenup required. She made out like a queen."
Becca watches me intently, her expression softening slightly.
"As for the allegations, I've never been accused of harassment. There was one woman in New York and another in London who made accusations at a close colleague when she they fired were fired for misconduct and espionage, but he was investigated and we settled out of court to keep it out of the papers.”
I reach for her hand again, relieved when she doesn't pull away.
"And Becca, the most important thing—I didn't pursue you to hurt Jack. I've been drawn to you since the first time I saw you.Your intelligence, kindness, and quiet strength drew me to you. But you were with Jack, and despite my feelings about him, I would never interfere in a relationship."
"Then why now?" she asks.
"Because in Cozumel, I saw how he much he mistreated you. How he dismissed you. And when you came back from the beach, crying over his callous and entitled behavior..." I pause, remembering her tear-stained face. "I couldn't stand by anymore. Not when I care about you so much."
Her fingers intertwine with mine, and I feel something loosen in my chest.
"Jack is threatened," I continue. "He always believed he’d inherit the company and now that he and his mother are divorced, he’s scrambling to figure out a future that doesn’t include my wallet. He's lashing out, using the one thing he thinks he can control—you."
"I should have known," Becca says softly, her thumb tracing small circles on my hand. "The things he said just didn't sound like you."
Relief washes over me. She believes me. The knot in my stomach begins to unravel.
"There's more," I add, not wanting to leave anything unsaid. "Jack told Kay about us. That's why he's panicking."
Her eyes widen. "What did she say?"
"Exactly what you'd expect. She called me a cliché—the older man leaving his wife for a younger woman. I reminded her we'd been separated for over a year before Cozumel."
The waiter approaches again, and this time I let him take our orders. Becca chooses the sea bass, I go for the steak. When we're alone again, she leans forward.
"I feel stupid," she admits. "For even questioning you."
"Don't." I squeeze her hand. "Jack has had years to perfect his manipulation. And relationships require trust, which means sometimes asking difficult questions."
She nods, her shoulders relaxing. "He showed up at my apartment a few hours later while I was getting ready for dinner. Drunk. Said he wanted to 'work things out.'"
My jaw clenches. "What happened?"
"I didn't let him in. Told him through the door that it was over and he needed to leave me alone."
Pride swells in my chest. "Good for you."
"He wouldn't leave for almost an hour. Kept saying how much he loved me, how we were meant to be together and should marry." She shakes her head. "It was the first time he'd ever said he said he wanted marry me. Funny how it only came out when he thought he was losing me."
"He doesn't love you, Becca. He loves what you represent—status, stability, a connection to a better life."
Our wine arrives, a rich Bordeaux that complements the candlelight dancing across Becca's face. I raise my glass.
"To us," I say.
"To new beginnings," she counters with a smile that reaches her eyes.
We sip in comfortable silence. I watch her over the rim of my glass, taking in every detail—the way her hair catches the light, the gentle curve of her neck, the warmth in her eyes when she looks at me.
"What are you thinking?" she asks, catching me staring.
"That I'm the luckiest man in New York tonight."
She blushes again, and I find it captivating how someone so accomplished and intelligent can be so genuinely modest.
"I've been thinking," she says, setting down her glass. "About us."
My heart skips. "And?"
"I want this to work, Clive. But I'm scared. Not of Jack or what people might say about our age difference. I'm scared because... I've never felt this way before." Her voice drops to almost a whisper. "It's intense. Overwhelming sometimes."
I reach across the table, cupping her cheek in my palm. "That's exactly how it should feel when it's real."
Her eyes flutter closed for a moment as she leans into my touch. When she opens them again, there's a vulnerability there that makes my chest tighten.
"What about gossip?" she asks. "People will know I moved from Jack to his very rich stepfather? They’ll think I’m a gold digger."
"Your family is wealthy, Becca. You don’t need my money."
"People will talk and they’ll run our reputations through the mud. What if it effects our business."
I smile, stroking her cheek before withdrawing my hand. "People always talk. Let them. Money will always talks louder. If they want to do business with Bishop Technologies or want to remain on my good side, they won’t dare dream of blacklisting your business. And you’ll have your hands full with my business. I need a good event planner."
Our food arrives, steam rising from perfectly plated dishes. The aroma is enticing, but I find myself more hungry for our conversation than the meal.
"I spoke with my lawyer today," I say after we've taken our first bites. "About Jack."
Her fork pauses midway to her mouth. "What did they say?"
"If he continues harassing you, we can file for a restraining order. And I've instructed security at both our buildings to be on alert."
Becca sets her fork down. "I hope it doesn't come to that."
"So do I. But I want you to feel safe." I cut into my steak, the knife slicing through like butter. "Jack has always had trouble with boundaries. And rejection."
"He's desperate. I almost feel sorry for him." She takes a sip of wine. "Almost."
"That's because you have a good heart. It's one of the things I lo—" I catch myself. Too soon. "One of the things I admire about you."
Her eyes meet mine, and I know she caught my near slip. A small smile plays at the corner of her mouth.
"Tell me about your day," I say, changing the subject. "Any exciting events on the horizon?"
She launches into a description of an upcoming charity gala she's planning, her hands animating as she speaks. I find myself mesmerized by her passion, the way her entire face lights up. This is the Becca I know—confident, brilliant, enthusiastic. Not the subdued woman who walked in earlier, weighted down by Jack's lies.
"Sorry," she says suddenly. "I'm rambling."
"Don't apologize. I love watching you talk about your work."
"It's not as impressive as running a global security firm."
I shake my head. "What you do brings people joy. That's something to be proud of."
Our conversation flows easily after that, moving from work to books we've read recently, to places we'd like to travel. The weight of Jack's accusations seems to lift with each passing minute, and by dessert—a dark chocolate soufflé we share between us—Becca is laughing freely, her eyes bright.
"Stay with me tonight," I say as we step out into the cool evening air, my hand at the small of her back.
She looks up at me, hesitation flickering across her face. "I don't know if that's a good idea. Not because I don't want to," she adds quickly. "But because once I'm in your arms again, I might never want to leave."
I pull her closer, not caring who might see us on the busy street. "Would that be so terrible?"
"No," she whispers, her breath warm against my neck. "That's what scares me."
I signal to my driver, who pulls the car smoothly to the curb. As we slide into the backseat, Becca's hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining.
"Take us home," I say, not specifying which home. There's only one place I want to be tonight.