Chapter 20
B y the time I left the coworking space, the sun was dipping low over Charleston, casting everything in that honeyed, late-afternoon glow that made even the cracks in the sidewalk look romantic.
My tote was slung over one shoulder, my cardigan draped across my arm, and for the first time in days, I felt like I could breathe again.
It hadn’t been a perfect day, but it had been a productive one.
I’d cleared out my inbox, responded to the flood of comments on my latest “State of Her Union” column, and even managed to do some light outlining for next week’s piece.
I’d crossed things off my list, answered the emails I’d been avoiding, and—miracle of miracles—I hadn’t cried in a single bathroom stall.
Progress.
Mina had been … relentless, of course. But I didn’t hate it.
As much as she’d grilled me like a CIA interrogator, there was something comforting about having someone to talk to.
Someone who knew. So meone who asked questions I didn’t want to answer and didn’t let me squirm away from the ones I needed to.
I still didn’t know what to make of all of it—of Ronan, of Alpha Mail, of this gnawing tension inside me between who I’d always been and who I was becoming when I was with him. The line between journalist and woman was starting to blur, and I wasn’t sure which side I wanted to land on.
Did I have to choose?
I thought about what it would feel like to walk into a restaurant with him. To slide into a candlelit booth, let the wine flow, and pretend—for a moment—that it was normal. That I was a normal woman dating a devastatingly hot man who just happened to be the kind of dangerous that made my blood hum.
I thought about the way his fingers curled around my wrist when he was trying to make a point.
The way his voice went low when he didn’t like my answers.
I thought about the taste of red wine on his tongue, the scrape of his stubble against my thighs, the way he made me feel like I was both prey and queen.
A small part of me—one I didn’t want to name—wondered what it would cost me to just say yes. Not someday. Not in private.
Now.
My phone buzzed in my pocket just as I was climbing the steps to my townhouse. I pulled it out without thinking.
Trevor.
Of course.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” he said, his voice casual but clipped. “Did I catch you at a bad time? ”
“No, just got home from work.”
“You sound distracted.”
“I’m always distracted, Trevor,” I said, shouldering the door open and stepping into the cool, quiet foyer. “What’s up?”
There was a pause on the other end.
“You wrote about Alpha Mail.”
I closed the door behind me and dropped my bag on the bench by the stairs. “Yes, I did.”
“That piece is … bold, even for you.”
I stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s just—,” he said carefully. “Risky. Controversial. A lot of eyes are on it, and some of them aren’t friendly. I wanted to make sure you knew what you were stepping into.”
I moved into the kitchen, needing something to do with my hands. “People want honesty. And I had something to say.”
A pause. Too long to be casual.
“Are you involved?” he asked finally. “With them? Alpha Mail?”
My stomach tightened. “What? No.”
It was bold of him to even ask. We’d broken up. Trevor, with his soft voice and safer choices. Trevor, who flinched at confrontation and recoiled from my ambition. It was laughable, really—how someone so quick to fold now wanted to play the protector.
He was the kind of man who whispered concerns. Ronan didn’t whisper anything.
“You sure about that?”
I laughed lightly—too lightly. “It’s called journalism, Trevor. I wrote a reaction piece. That’s all.”
Another pause.
“I just want you to be careful. ”
I bit down on a sigh. “You don’t get to warn me, Trevor. Not anymore.”
“Still,” he said. “I’ve heard things.”
“From who?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
I opened the fridge and stared blankly inside, the cold air brushing my skin. “You didn’t call to talk about the article. What do you really want?”
But he didn’t get a chance to answer.
Because that’s when I saw it.
Out the window, parked across the street, half-shadowed beneath the bloom-heavy crepe myrtle?—
A sleek black Maserati. Low. Lethal. The same one I’d seen garaged at Ronan’s house, tucked behind polished concrete and moody uplighting like some kind of beast asleep in its den.
My breath caught.
He wasn’t inside the car. He was leaning against it, arms crossed, wearing black slacks and a white shirt that looked like it had been poured over his shoulders. His sleeves were rolled up. His expression unreadable.
He was watching my front door.
Watching me.
“Zara?” Trevor’s voice crackled in my ear.
I didn’t answer. I stepped back from the fridge and crossed to the front window. Pulled the curtain slightly to the side.
Ronan didn’t move.
But his eyes found mine.
And my stomach dropped.
“I have to go,” I said into the phone.
“Wait—”
I hung up.
A moment later, my phone buzzed again .
This time it was a text.
Come outside.
I stood there for a beat too long, heart racing. Then I grabbed my keys again, slipped back out the front door, and made my way down the steps.
The street was quiet, but not quiet enough.
A car rolled by in the distance. Somewhere nearby, someone’s wind chimes stirred with the breeze, soft and eerie.
I hesitated at the bottom step, a ripple of anxiety working its way through me.
Anyone could see us. A neighbor. A student.
A colleague from the university or a friend of my mother’s, one who liked to gossip over gardenias and wine.
This was my real life. And he didn’t belong in it. Not in this setting. Not out here in the open where someone might recognize me, might ask who he was, might see something in the way he looked at me.
But I stepped toward him anyway.
Ronan didn’t say anything at first. Just watched me with that look that stripped me bare faster than his hands ever could.
I folded my arms. “Were you just … waiting out here?”
“I was watching,” he said simply.
“Watching what?”
“You.” His jaw ticked. “At the coworking space. Through the window.”
My heart skipped. “You followed me?”
He shrugged. “I wanted to see you. Figured you might try to avoid me.”
“I wasn’t?—”
He took a step closer, eyes narrowing. “Who was on the phone?”
I blinked. “Excuse me? ”
“Just now,” he said, voice tight. “Who were you talking to?”
I stared at him. “Does it matter?”
His eyes darkened. “It matters.”
I swallowed. “It was Trevor.”
A beat.
Something cold flickered behind his eyes. Not rage. Not jealousy, exactly. Just … calculation. Like he was recalibrating something. Like the name told him more than I meant it to.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” I said quickly. “It was just a call.”
“Trevor,” he echoed, like he was tasting the name and finding it bitter. “I haven’t heard that one before.”
“You wouldn’t have.” I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly too aware of how casual I looked, barefoot in leggings and an oversized shirt. “He’s not important.”
His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth, then lower. “He’s someone.”
I hesitated, then exhaled. “He’s the kind of guy I used to date.”
Something sharpened in his expression.
“Safe. Predictable. Soft,” I said, more to myself than him. “He works in policy research. He’s always on time. Drinks oat milk lattes and volunteers on Saturdays. He’s nice.”
Ronan raised an eyebrow. “Sounds riveting.”
I let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Exactly.”
He stepped closer. Just enough to make the street feel smaller, the air denser. “Is that what you want?”
I didn’t answer.
His voice dropped, dark silk over steel. “Someone small enough not to take up too much space? Gentle enough to leave you untouched?”
“I used to think so. Trevor and I dated for a while.”
“And now?”
I met his gaze. “Now, I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “You’re not meant for small.”
“I know.”
He leaned in, his body heat coiling around me like a storm just waiting to strike. “You’re not meant to be handled with gloves, Zara. You’re meant to be held down and worshipped.”
My breath caught.
“You’re not meant for men like Trevor.” His voice was quieter now, lethal in its intimacy. “You’re meant for men like me.”
The air between us pulsed.
I didn’t say a word.
I didn’t have to.
“Put on a dress,” he said.
I blinked. “What?”
“We’re going to dinner. Downtown.”
My stomach twisted. “Ronan?—”
“You can’t put me off forever, Zara.”
“I’m not putting you off,” I said, even though I was.
He stepped forward until we were nearly chest to chest. “Yes, you are. You want this when it’s convenient. When it’s private. But I’m done hiding.”
“I’m not hiding you,” I whispered.
He reached for my wrist, fingers brushing the bracelet he’d given me. “Then prove it.”
I didn’t move.
“Let me take you out,” he said, voice rougher now. “ Let me show you what it looks like when a man wants you in the light.”
The weight of it all pressed down on me—the heat of his gaze, the thrum between my thighs, the impossible choices crowding my chest.
And somewhere inside that tangle of fear and want and resistance … a little voice whispered: Say yes .
I almost said it out loud.
The words danced on my tongue like a dare, aching to be spoken. But I couldn’t. Not yet.
“I want to,” I said, my voice too soft, too full of longing. “But not here. Not where someone might?—”
I paused, swallowing hard. “Not where someone might recognize me.”
His jaw flexed. “You’re still afraid.”
I nodded. “Yes.”
Ronan stared at me, his eyes scanning every inch of my face like he was trying to crack open the code that kept me tethered to fear. I watched the war play out behind his eyes—anger, frustration, something that looked too close to heartbreak.
Then, he said, “What do you want, Zara?”
His voice was low. Dangerous. Unbearably intimate.
I licked my lips. “To be with you. Just … not with an audience.”
His expression didn’t soften, but it shifted—just enough to let me breathe. “Where?”
“Somewhere else. Somewhere private.”
“That’s vague.”
I held his gaze. “Do you still have access to that plane?”
Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise. Curiosity. Approval.
“It’s always available,” he said .
Of course, it was. Because Ronan Hale didn’t just have wealth. He had power. The kind that slipped behind velvet ropes and into private airfields. The kind that moved through the world like it owed him something.
“Then take me somewhere,” I whispered. “Just us. One night. One dinner. Somewhere it doesn’t matter who sees us.”
He didn’t answer right away. He just stared, chest rising and falling like he was measuring the cost of giving me what I asked for.
Finally—
“Savannah.”
I blinked. “What?”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, already typing. “There’s a place I like. Overlooks the river. Quiet. They’ll give us privacy.”
I stepped closer, heat curling in my belly. “You’ve done this before.”
“I’ve done everything before,” he said without apology. “But not with you.”
My breath caught.
“You want a night away?” he added, looking up. “Then let me give it to you. Say yes.”
And God help me—I did.
Twenty minutes later, I was changing into a silky black dress in my upstairs bedroom while Ronan waited downstairs, pacing the hardwood like a panther forced into patience.
The dress was simple. Elegant. The kind of thing I usually saved for political fundraisers or alumni events where I needed to look like I had my shit together.
But tonight, I wasn’t trying to impress donors or voters. I was trying not to unravel completely under the weight of Ronan Hale’s gaze.
I stepped into my heels, smoothed the dress over my hips, and took one last look in the mirror.
I didn’t look like myself.
Maybe that was the point.
When I came down the stairs, Ronan looked up and stilled. Just … stilled.
Like I’d knocked the breath out of him.
He had changed, too.
“You clean up well,” I said, because it was safer than saying you look like sin in a suit .
He was wearing charcoal slacks, a white dress shirt open at the collar, and a watch that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. He looked polished and lethal. Elegant and undone.
“Get in the car,” he said softly. “Before I change my mind and fuck you against that wall.”
My pulse jumped.
But I walked past him, letting my hand trail across his chest as I moved toward the door. “We have a reservation to make, Mr. Hale.”
The drive to the airfield was quiet but charged. My thighs pressed together, my breath shallow. Every brush of his fingers against the gearshift felt like a promise waiting to be cashed in.
When we pulled onto the private runway, I saw the sleek jet waiting, engines already warming. A man in a pressed suit stood by the stairs, nodding as we approached.
Ronan didn’t bother with introductions. Just opened the car door, helped me out like a gentleman, and guided me up the steps with one hand firm at my lower back.
Inside, it was just as I remembered—sleek lines, buttery leather seats, and the kind of low lighting that made everything feel indulgent.
The same jet that had flown us to Miami now felt different somehow.
Even more dangerous.
Even more deliberate.
I sank into the seat I’d claimed once before, my skin already prickling with anticipation.
Ronan moved to the built-in bar without a word, poured two glasses of deep red wine, then handed me one with a look that made my breath catch.
“To privacy,” he said, his voice low.
I clinked my glass against his, heart pounding.
“To power.”
His smile was slow and feral. “They’re not mutually exclusive.”
The flight was short, but the tension made it stretch like a rubber band ready to snap. Every look. Every sip of wine. Every brush of his leg against mine.
By the time we landed, I was ready to combust.