Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I'm sweeping cracker crumbs from under the kitchen table when Oliver pounces on the broom, batting at it with his tiny silver paws. The kitten has been with us for weeks now, and despite Reeves’s initial resistance, he's become part of our family.
"Oliver, you little troublemaker," I scold without any real annoyance. His green eyes blink up at me innocently before he attacks the broom again.
I sigh and lean against the counter, watching him play. The morning light streams through the window, highlighting dust particles dancing in the air. My mind drifts back to Caine's studio, to the velvet chaise, to the click of his camera and his soft directions.
Turn slightly... chin up... perfect.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the memories. It's been two weeks since the photo session. Two weeks of trying to forget, of focusing on Reeves, on Liam, on our newly improved finances. I should be relieved, grateful that chapter is closed.
The doorbell rings, startling both me and Oliver. He scampers away as I wipe my hands on my jeans and head to the door.
A courier stands there with a flat, rectangular package. "Delivery for Jenna Sullivan?"
My heart skips as I sign for it. I know exactly what it is.
Back in the kitchen, I carefully open the package. Inside is a sleek black portfolio. I hold my breath as I lift the cover.
The photos are stunning. Artistic. Sensual without being explicit. Caine has captured something in me I barely recognize—a quiet confidence, a serene beauty.
I've honestly never thought of myself as particularly beautiful, but I look amazing in these. In black and white, my curves look elegant, my expression mysterious.
These aren't pornographic at all; they're art; the types of photos I wouldn't be embarrassed to show Liza or Clara. Would I show them to my mom or my sister? Definitely not. They're way too judgmental.
A small cream-colored card falls out. A messy, sharp scribble:
Call me.
I slide down to sit on the kitchen floor, Oliver immediately climbing into my lap. My finger traces the letters as my thoughts race. Reeves was crystal clear about this—Caine is completely out of our lives now.
We made the deal, we got the money. It's supposed to be over, finished, done.
I remember the look in Reeves’s eyes when he told me — a mixture of relief and something darker I couldn't quite name. His voice had that edge to it, the one that appears when he's trying to convince himself as much as me.
But my phone is sitting right there on the kitchen counter, mocking me with its proximity.
The sleek black screen reflects the kitchen light, almost beckoning my fingers toward it.
The temptation pulses through me like a physical thing—a current running beneath my skin, making my fingertips tingle and my breath catch.
I glance at the envelope again, then back at my phone, caught in the gravitational pull between what I should do and what I want to do.
Oliver jumps from my lap, oblivious to my internal struggle, while the weight of that simple note seems to grow heavier in my hand with each passing second.
The rational part of my brain screams warnings about boundaries and agreements and the precarious stability we've finally achieved, but another part—the part that remembers Caine's eyes, his voice, his touch—whispers that one call couldn't possibly hurt.
"This is crazy," I whisper to Oliver, who pays me no mind.
I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't.
I grab my phone and search my contacts, my heart pounding as it rings.
The phone rings three times before he answers, and just the sound of his voice—that slow, smooth cadence—sends a rush of heat through my body.
"Jenna," Caine says, not a question but a statement. Like he knew I would call.
"I... I got the photos." My voice sounds small, breathless. I hate myself for it.
"And what do you think?" The warmth in his tone wraps around me like a physical touch.
"They're beautiful. Thank you. You made me look... so different."
"I captured what was already there." A pause, and I can practically see him leaning back in his chair, those green eyes of his narrowing thoughtfully.
"What you might be too blind to see. That hint of feistiness, the vulnerability in your eyes, the quiet strength you carry despite everything weighing on you. "
I swallow hard, clutching the phone tighter. My reflection stares back at me from the hallway mirror—tired eyes, messy bun coming undone, wearing one of Reeves’s old band shirts, nothing like the woman in those photographs.
"I don't see myself that way," I confess.
"That's precisely the problem," Caine says, his voice flowing like honey, slow and deliberate.
"You look in the mirror and see all your perceived flaws.
The exhaustion from looking after your family, the stress of your life, the woman who thinks she's always falling short.
" Another calculated pause. "I look at you and see something amazing beneath all that.
Now listen… sorry, I'm not trying to smooth-talk you. I just… It's how I feel about you."
My cheeks flush. "Caine… damn, you're good. You sure know how to get into a woman's head."
He laughs softly—the sound of it makes my knees weak. It's unfair how his laughter affects me. There's something about the deep, melodic rumble that seems to resonate in my chest, making me forget for just a moment about everything else, about everything except this moment.
I'm grateful he can't see my reaction through the phone, can't witness how easily he dismantles my defences with just that gentle sound. I press the phone closer to my ear, hungry for more of that sound despite myself.
"I'm not trying to get into your head, Jenna," he says. "Are you implying that I'm playing you?"
"Well, you are a player, aren't you? One of the best, right?"
He laughs again, and I love that I can make him laugh, too. "Well, yes. I'm the best at the table, but I don't play games with women. My mother raised me better than that. Spanish women don't take any shit, you know. And she made sure I knew that from an early age.”
I smile. "Yeah, and I'm a quarter Irish, and we don't take any shit either."
He laughs yet again. "And I like that about you."
"Well, you seem to like a lot of things about me. I think it'd be wiser—"
"I can't stop thinking about you," he interrupts. "The way you move. The way you smile. The way you look at me when you think I don't notice."
My heart hammers against my ribs. "This isn't appropriate, Caine.
You're doing it again." I exhale, feeling the weight of his words press against my chest. The phone grows slick in my grasp as my palm begins to sweat.
"You're trying to push your way into my life, into my head, into...
" I pause, not daring to complete that thought aloud.
The tension between us stretches across the phone line like a taut wire. "You throw money around like it solves everything, Caine. Like it can erase complications, or... or make people forget their promises. Their commitments."
"I want to see you again, Jenna."
"I'm married," I remind him, though the words feel hollow in my mouth. "Reeves made it clear our arrangement is over."
"One night," Caine says, his voice dropping lower. “Just one more night.”
The air leaves my lungs. "What?"
"Just dinner. Conversation. It doesn't have to be more than that unless you want it to be."
"Are you serious right now?" My fingers tighten around the phone. “Let me guess… You’re going to offer me another fifty thousand dollars for the privilege.”
“Yes, I’m completely serious, and no, I’m not offering you money. Like you said… you’re not a whore.”
The audacity stuns me. How dare he put me in this situation? Yet beneath my outrage burns something else—something dark and hungry that whispers how easy it would be to say yes.
"Do you think I'm that desperate?" My voice shakes with anger. "That I'd risk everything for you?”
"Jenna, that's not—"
"I'm not free, Caine." The words come out sharp, brittle.
"I know… I didn't mean—"
"Yes, you did." My hands are trembling now. "You think because you're rich, you can have anything—anyone—you want."
"That's not what this is about… this isn’t about sex.”
"Then what is it about?" I demand, but I don't wait for his answer. "Don't call me again."
I hang up, throw the phone down like it's burned me. Oliver startles and sprints off. My chest heaves with each breath, anger and arousal warring inside me.
The worst part isn't that he asked.
It's that for one terrible moment, I wanted to say yes.
I so, so badly wanted to say yes.
A few days later, I pace around the kitchen, still worked up, my hands shaking as I pick things up and put them down again. Oliver paws at my feet, but I barely notice. The absolute nerve of that man.
"Who does he think he is?" I mutter, grabbing my laptop from the counter.
I fire up my laptop and make my way upstairs to check on Liam. He's sitting on his bed, playing a game on my old phone, surrounded by stuffed animals.
"What's going on, sweetie. Having another party?"
He smiles up at me. "Everyone is tied of the party now, so we just chillin' now."
I smile. I love the way he sounds like his dad sometimes. "Tired," I repeat. "Not tied." I'm always correcting his speech—I can't help it. But he doesn't seem to mind. It's what his speech therapist does.
"Ti-rrr-ed," he repeats.
"Well, I'll just be on my computer in my room if you want to hang."
"Okay," he says sweetly, focused on his game.
As soon as I sit on my bed, I flip my laptop open. My fingers fly across the keyboard: Caine Hall Portland Maine.
The search results load instantly, and there he is—his face staring back at me from professional headshots and news articles. CEO of Hall Properties and Development Inc. The company's website boasts Transforming Communities Across New England, with photos of finished pristine developments.
Caine ‘The Fox’ Hall. Professional pool player. Multiple championships.
I smile. What a fitting nickname. He definitely is a fox; sly and cunning, clever and playful.
I click through page after page, my annoyance building. Thousands of employees. Charitable foundations. Featured in Forbes. A goddamn billionaire playing games with my life, my marriage, my sanity.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm calling Jessica.
"Can you watch Liam for a couple hours? Emergency errand." My voice sounds strange even to me.
"Sure, be there in fifteen."
I don't bother changing out of my prairie skirt and Reeves’s oversized Guns n' Roses t-shirt. My hair's piled in a messy bun, and I haven't worn makeup in days. Good. Let him see me like this—not made up, posed and perfect like in his precious photographs.
Jessica arrives, and I'm out the door with barely a goodbye.
The whole drive to Portland, I switch radio stations compulsively. Nothing helps. A love song makes me angrier. Rock music isn't loud enough. Talk radio is just noise. My hands grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white.
The Hall Properties building rises like a middle finger to the sky—all glass and steel and pretentiousness.
I park haphazardly and storm through the revolving doors into a lobby that screams wealth. Everything is grey and beige, dark wood, sleek lines, and understated elegance.
The receptionist could be on a runway in Milan. She's tall, willowy, with perfect cheekbones and immaculate makeup. Her silk blouse probably costs more than my monthly grocery budget.
"I need to see Caine Hall," I announce, not bothering with pleasantries.
She looks at me like I've crawled out from under a rock. Her eyes travel from my messy hair to my worn sneakers.
"Do you have an appointment?" Her voice is cool, professional.
"No, but he'll want to see me." I stand taller, refusing to be intimidated. "Tell him Jenna Sullivan is here."
Her perfectly shaped eyebrow arches slightly. "Mr. Hall is in meetings all afternoon. Perhaps you'd like to schedule something for next week?"
Her condescending tone grates on my nerves, and I desperately want to crawl over that pretentious marble counter and slap her.
Of course, I restrain myself. "Just tell him I'm here," I insist. “Please,” I add, realizing I’m kind of being a bitch. It’s not the woman’s fault if Caine Hall is a grandiose narcissist who thinks he can get anything he wants, no matter the cost to others.
Her brows perk up, and she shoots me a tight smile—yes, she thinks I'm certifiable. Which may be I am.