Chapter 3
Saif stood by the window, jaw tight, heart pounding.
He hated that he felt it—this involuntary reaction, this electricity in his chest.
Jemma was in the building.
She was seconds away.
Any moment now, the elevator doors would open, and she’d step out. He could already see it in his mind: that dark brown hair falling in soft waves over her shoulder, those hazel eyes catching the light. Eyes that used to light up when they met his.
They wouldn’t light up today. Not after the way she left.
She hadn’t just walked away. She’d vanished. No warning. No goodbye that made sense. Just vague excuses and a resignation letter that told him nothing.
She’d lied to him.
And now, her brother had broken into his building and spray-painted his office like a rebellious street punk.
Tonight, he was going to get answers.
The elevator chimed.
Saif turned, body taut with anticipation and barely controlled restraint.
The doors slid open—and there she was.
He stared.
Her hair clung to her face in wet ropes. Her blouse was soaked through and practically transparent, her skirt dripping onto the marble floor. She didn’t have a coat. Her makeup was streaked, and her skin was pale except for the flush of anger burning across her cheeks.
“What the hell happened to you?” he demanded, voice sharp with disbelief.
Jemma stepped out, shoulders squared. “I’m here,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Then she cleared her throat and met his eyes with a hard glare.
That glare hit him like a shot of whiskey—burning and familiar.
She was smaller than he remembered. Five-foot-six, maybe five-eight with heels, but even soaked and trembling from the cold, she didn’t look fragile. She looked... furious. And proud.
And thinner.
He scanned her quickly, noting the collarbones that jutted against the soaked fabric. She’d lost weight. Not in a healthy way. Her blouse clung to her like a second skin, outlining every curve, every dip. Her lacy bra was visible, and the sharp peaks of her nipples pressed against the wet fabric.
His body responded instantly.
Saif cursed under his breath and turned slightly, trying to push the memory of her soft laughter and tangled sheets out of his head.
However, Jemma didn’t give him time to recover, to regain control.
“Saif,” she said again, louder this time. “I’m here. Now tell me why you summoned me like a spoiled king demanding tribute.”
Damn, he’d missed that.
Even soaked to the skin, looking like a drowned rat, she still had that fire. That edge. She hadn’t lost it. If anything, it had sharpened.
He motioned down the hall, jaw clenched.
“This way.”
There were a thousand questions bubbling inside him. Why hadn’t she parked in the parking garage? Why was she drenched? Why did she look like she hadn’t slept in weeks? Why had she left him?
But those questions weren’t useful. Not right now.
And besides, he’d asked the last one before.
Her answer?
“It was time.”
She’d mumbled some other nonsense, but not a real explanation. No emotion. Just a resignation letter.
Damn her.
And damn himself, because seeing her again only confirmed what his brother and cousins had been needling him about for months.
He wasn’t over her.
That realization hit harder than it should have, and it only fueled the storm already raging inside him.
“This is why I asked to see you,” he snapped, pushing open the double doors to his office. His voice was cold, controlled—but barely. “I tried your mother’s number. She didn’t answer. So I’m dumping this in your lap.”
Jemma stepped inside—and froze.
Her breath caught audibly. “What in the...?”
Her voice trailed off as her gaze swept across the destruction.
The desk—his custom walnut desk—was splintered and gutted.
Spray paint streaked the walls in jagged, angry swipes.
One word dominated the chaos: cheapskate.
It was scrawled across the far wall, across his desk, even across the floor.
The paint had dried in streaks and droplets, adding an extra layer of venom to every letter.
She tilted her head, staring at the word as if it might rearrange itself into something less confusing. Her brow furrowed.
There were other markings, crude symbols he still hadn’t deciphered. But he wasn’t watching the walls—he was watching her.
She didn’t deny it.
Didn’t offer some flimsy excuse or fake shock.
That was one thing he’d always respected about her—Jemma never lied. Not about the things that mattered.
He closed the doors behind them, the quiet click echoing in the ruined room.
“How are you going to make this right?” he asked, his voice low and taut.
He wasn’t asking out of pettiness.
He wasn’t sure what he was asking for at all.
An apology?
An explanation?
Or maybe just a reason to stop thinking about her every damn night when he closed his eyes.
She stood there in soaked heels and a translucent blouse, eyes still locked on the mess her brother had left behind.
She hadn’t said a word yet.
But he could feel it—something was coming.
And he wasn’t sure if he was ready for it.