Chapter 23
WORTH
The next morning, I call Brianna.
It’s seven a.m. in Singapore, which means it should be right around the time she’ll be getting home from school back in Seattle. I haven’t spoken to her since I landed yesterday, and I’m itching to hear her voice.
She picks up on the second ring.
“Dad!”
Just like that, the tension in my shoulders eases. No matter how much stress I carry, hearing her voice always cuts it in half.
“Hi, Piglet. How’s my girl?”
“Good! I just got home from school. Guess what? Kennedy slipped up and told us that his mom is seeing our teacher—”
And she’s off, recounting every piece of high school gossip like it’s headline news. I lean back in the desk chair, smiling.
Moments like this remind me just how lucky I am. Our relationship isn’t just father-daughter. Bri trusts me with everything, and so do I. She’s my best friend.
By the time she’s finished dragging half the town, I’m laughing so hard my chest aches. “Alright, alright. Enough dirt. What are your plans tonight?”
“Maggie said Uncle Henny, Uncle Griff and Sylas are coming over for dinner. Apparently they insisted when she told them she was making lasagna.”
I chuckle.
Henson has always been there, from day one.
When Vanessa walked out, he stepped in even more.
He’s Brianna’s anchor as much as mine. She respects my brother deeply.
And Griffin—and his boy, Sylas—are family in all but blood.
We’ve been through the trenches together—two men left standing with kids to raise.
Though, unlike me, Griffin lost his first love to death. He’s stronger than I’ll ever be.
“Say hi to the boys for me, and make sure you save me an extra piece of lasagna,” I say, smiling.
Bri laughs, and we say our goodbyes, ending the call.
I drag myself into the bathroom and turn the water on hot, steam filling the space as I step into the shower.
I scrub a hand over my face under the spray. Last night flashes back. The teasing texts with Mya knocked me off balance, and her bratty jokes actually managed to make me forget the issues with Vanessa for a while. And the moments in the bathroom at the club—Mya’s mouth, her taste, her sounds…
I was sure I’d toss and turn all night, eaten alive by rage over my ex-wife resurfacing. Instead, I slept deeply. Because of Mya. Somehow she makes me feel at ease, even though she’s also the source of half my fucking turmoil.
My cock throbs, insistent, and I give in. Wrapping my hand around the thick length, I stroke it, slowly at first, water pounding against my shoulders.
I close my eyes—and it’s Mya kneeling in front of me again, eyes wide, lips slick and swollen, calling me Mr. Miller. My hips jerk, hand pumping harder, chasing the edge like I’m chasing her.
A guttural sound tears out of me as release takes over, scalding water and the memory of her taste tangling into one sweet high.
When I finally come down, I brace both palms against the tile, panting.
Mya is dangerous. But she’s the only thing keeping me steady.
As soon as we step out of the last client meeting, I’m craving a stiff drink.
Hours of presentations, back-and-forth negotiations, and pretending not to notice the way Mya kept sneaking glances at me, drained me dry.
It’s early evening in Singapore, but with the jet lag and the long day, it feels closer to three in the morning. Everyone is tired, but instead of dispersing, Seraya—ever the social butterfly—pipes up.
“Dinner, everyone?” she asks, dropping her portfolio onto a nearby armchair. “We deserve something after that marathon.”
A chorus of agreement follows. Ethan throws out the name of a seafood place he knows, another colleague suggests something more upscale. But my mind is already drifting to the quiet solitude of my hotel room.
I don’t join in the conversation. I hang back, scrolling on my phone, listening.
Because what I’m really waiting for… is Mya’s answer.
“You in, Mya?” Seraya asks her.
Mya hesitates, and for a second I think she’ll say yes. But then she shakes her head. “Thanks, I think I’ll pass tonight. Room service and an early night sound better.”
The group groans, Ethan calling her a party pooper, and she laughs along, like it’s no big deal.
I slide my phone into my pocket.
“Enjoy yourselves,” I say smoothly to the group, stepping past them. They nod, already caught up in a debate over crab curry versus cocktails. None of them notice the way my gaze drags over Mya as I head for the elevators.
Back in my room, I toss my jacket onto the chair and loosen my tie. I grab the hotel phone off the nightstand and punch in the number for room service.
Then, I pour two fingers of scotch into a glass and wander to the window. Singapore’s skyline glitters. I should feel good about solidifying a new project, but all I can think about is Mya.
Her saying yes to the arrangement should’ve settled things. I thought I’d feel relief. Instead, there’s something about her that strips me down in ways I don’t want to admit. That makes me think of something I swore off years ago: permanence.
And that scares the shit out of me.
I take a long swallow, the burn scorching down my throat, hoping it’ll kill the thought. It doesn’t.
Then reality crowds in. Mya’s so much younger.
She’s still figuring herself out, chasing her career, building her life.
Meanwhile, I’ve got Brianna. My daughter is my whole world, and the last thing she needs is someone walking in half-prepared to play a role they’re not ready for.
Mya doesn’t deserve that pressure, and Brianna doesn’t deserve the risk.
The bubble bursts. Maybe it’s better off this way—keeping her at arm’s length.
I down the rest of my drink, strip off my clothes, and step into the shower.
By the time I’m out, towel slung low on my hips, I hear the vibration of my phone on the counter.
Mya:
*picture attachment*
Worth Miller!!!
I swipe the photo open and a smile tugs at my mouth.
I see you got the food.
It takes her only seconds to reply.
Mya:
The food??? You mean the FEAST? How am I supposed to eat all of this?
I huff out a laugh, shaking my head.
I didn’t know what you liked, so I ordered the entire menu.
The three dots bounce.
Mya:
This is absurd, Worth.
Absurd? Maybe. But I picture her face lighting up in surprise when she opened the door, and I don’t regret it.
You’re welcome.
Mya:
Thank you, but I didn’t ask for this.
Her resistance is so predictable.
You didn’t have to ask. I wanted to.
Mya:
Why?
I rub the back of my neck. Hell if I know why.
I’m not sure. It felt right. Enjoy it.
Silence stretches long enough for me to check the time. Then—
Mya:
I can’t eat all of this alone… Maybe I should call Ethan to come join me.
The phone nearly cracks in my grip.
That brat.
My jaw grinds. She’s doing this on purpose, dangling his name like bait. She wants to see me react.
I yank a shirt over my head, jump into sweatpants, and shove my feet into shoes without bothering with socks. She might be teasing, but I’m not giving her a chance to follow through.
Because even the idea of her alone in that room with him? Unacceptable.
I step out of the room. The elevator ride feels like a slow descent into hell. My pulse hammers against my throat, hands fisting and flexing at my sides like I’m heading into a fight. Maybe I am—Ethan might already be in her room, and I can’t promise that I won’t punch the kid at first sight.
I stalk down the hallway, counting the numbers until I reach Mya’s room. I pound on the door.
When it opens, every rational thought I had is obliterated.
Mya stands there barefoot, drowning in the soft light from the lamp behind her. Her pajamas—if you can call them that—are nothing but a thin, silky camisole that hugs the curve of her breasts, and shorts that barely cover the swell of her ass.
My throat dries.
Fuck.
Her hair is loose, curls tumbling over her shoulders like something out of a fantasy I shouldn’t be having.
I drag my gaze back up to her face. Her lips are parted, her cheeks flushed.
“Worth,” she breathes, clutching the doorframe for support.
I should say something reasonable, but reason is hanging by a thread, and professionalism went out the window the moment she joked about Ethan.
All I can manage is a low growl. “You were going to call Ethan?”
Mya blinks, and that tiny pause is all it takes to tip me over the edge. I step forward, forcing her back until I’m inside her room and the door clicks shut behind me.
I can feel the heat coming off her body, her chest rising and falling under that sinful scrap of silk.
Her throat works as she swallows. “I was joking.”
My lips twitch into a wicked smile. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing? You dangle his name just to get a rise out of me.”
Her chin tips up, defiant. “Maybe because it works.”
For a second, I simply stare at her. She’s right. It does work. Too damn well.
I close the distance, stopping just shy of pressing against her.
My fingers battle the urge to reach for her.
“Do you know what you’re doing to me, Mya?
You walk around in little scraps of silk, talk back like you own the place, mention other guys’ names in your room, and then you act surprised when I can’t fucking think straight around you. ”
Her lips part, a shaky breath slipping out. “Ethan isn’t—”
“Say Ethan’s name again, and I’ll lose it.”
The silence between us burns. Her gaze darts to my mouth, then back up. I see the crack in her wall, the tremor in her body.
My hand shoots up, tangling in her curls, angling her head back just enough. I capture her mouth with mine, devouring, taking—because I can’t fucking help myself.
Mya gasps into me, and I swallow it whole, my other hand gripping her hip, pulling her flush against the hardness straining at my sweatpants.
Too soon, she pushes at my chest. “Worth. Enough.”