29. Audra
I stare at him, open-mouthed. For a moment, I think my heart actually stops, not a skipped beat, not a stutter. Just… nothing. Like my body forgot how to function under the weight of what he just said. Because his words… they sound like mine.
Like the girl I used to be. The one who believed in impossible things, like skiing in the morning and standing barefoot in the ocean by sunset.
Like being known. Completely. Effortlessly.
My knees go weak. It's subtle, but I feel it, the slight sway, the way my fingers tighten around the railing just to stay upright.
Like gravity shifted and forgot to warn me.
This is dangerous.
Not him.
This.
The way he looks at me.
The way he sees me.
"You're staring," Gabe murmurs, softer now, like he's aware something just changed between us.
I swallow, but my throat is dry. "You just—" I shake my head slightly, trying to find my footing again. "You say things like that so casually."
"Nothing about that was casual."
His voice drops, and there's something in it now, something heavier. Truer. Something that makes my stomach flip.
God.
This is exactly how it starts, isn't it?
Not with grand gestures. Not with declarations.
But with small, terrifying moments where someone looks at you like you matter.
Like you've always mattered. And I hate how much I want that.
Because Pete… a bitter thought cuts through everything.
Pete had years. Years. Six of them. As much as I try, I can't remember a single moment where he looked at me like this.
Where he noticed the small things. The meaningless things that somehow mean everything.
The way I take my coffee. The side I sleep on. The sound I make before I fall asleep.
My chest tightens. Maybe it's coincidence.
Maybe Gabe just… pays attention. But even as I think it, I know.
Pete wouldn't have been able to list half of that.
Not after six years. Not after sharing a bed, a life, a routine.
Because Pete never looked at me like I was something to study.
Something to learn. Pete never wanted to know me; he wanted to change me.
And Gabe?—
Gabe looks at me like I'm a puzzle he wants to take his time solving. Like every piece matters. And it does something to me. Something I don't know how to control.
"It's not fair," I whisper before I can stop myself.
His brows pull together slightly. "What isn't?"
I let out a quiet, shaky breath, my gaze dropping for just a second before I force it back to him. "You."
There's a beat of silence.
"Me?" he repeats.
I nod, barely. "You don't even try, and you still—" I cut myself off, pressing my lips together.
Still what? Still make me feel things I shouldn't? Still make me question everything? Still make my body betray me every time you get too close?
I shake my head again, frustrated now. "It's just… a lot."
His expression softens, but not in a way that makes me feel small. In a way that makes me feel… seen. "Yeah," he says quietly. "It is."
He doesn't look sorry about it, though. He takes a small step closer, not touching me, but close enough that I feel him anyway. The heat. The awareness.
"You can tell me to stop," he adds.
My heart begins to beat rapidly, and the butterflies in my stomach have decided to dance a Macarena. It takes a lot of willpower, but I finally force the words out. "Please stop."
Immediately, he steps back. Regret flickers in his eyes, but he respects my words. He has no idea how that affects me, coming from a man like him. A man so used to taking what he wants.
I let out a nervous laugh, trying to recapture the mood from before I decided to do something stupid like flirt with him.
I should have known that my amateur moves would pale compared to those of an experienced man like him.
The problem is, I always liked playing with fire.
Still do, obviously. And equally obviously, I haven't learned when to stop before getting really burned.
I decide to give him a small secret, just to make the last few seconds disappear.
"I blackmailed Flea," I admit.
An amused eyebrow arches up, in sync with the corner of his lip, making him so fucking dangerous to my lower parts, I can feel wetness gathering. "Flea?"
I nod. "Razor's second in command, the man who truly ran the Black Canyon Reapers. I told him that I knew what he was doing and that one word from me to Razor would put an end to him. I told him that it was in his best interest for me to vanish and for Razor not to come looking after me."
I can't lie, the astounded look in his eyes is like balm on burned skin.
Like warm oil running down my back. His hand reaches forward and gently, ever so gently, cups my cheek.
The gesture is so intimate, so soft, my breath stops mid-inhale.
The contact of his palm on my skin is electrifying; it misfires every single nerve in my body, and my pussy clenches with an ache that is hard to describe.
"You are the most amazing woman I've ever met."
The next morning…
You are the most amazing woman I've ever met. His words run on repeat, royalty-free, in my head. He made me sound as if I had single-handedly disassembled the entire MC instead of a simple act of blackmail. He made me sound… like a heroine. And shit. In that moment, I felt like one too.
We stood on that balcony almost all night. Long enough for him to learn more of my secrets. He listened to my stories with such intensity you'd think I'd given him the nuclear codes. We talked and talked. It was easy.
Too easy. Because the entire night, I didn't think about Pete, not once.
Guilt comes roaring back, heavy and hot, settling in my stomach.
Despite the fact that I had already emotionally separated from him, he was still my husband.
He was still a man I deeply cared about, and he deserved a lot better than a wife like me who can just… tune him out that easily.
Before I can get into a deep state of self-loathing or let the grief take root, there is a knock on the door, and Jenna pops in. "Am I disturbing you?"
I'm glad to see her. She is a perfect distraction right now. Gabe left early for… whatever mob bosses do, and Mom hasn't even woken up yet. She never gets up before ten.
"I was just in the middle of deep self-loathing and sinking into a dark pit of guilt, so no, you're not disturbing me in the least," I tell her and walk towards her, unsure if I want to shake her hand or what.
She doesn't hesitate. She crosses the room and pulls me into a hug. A real one. Tight. Grounding. Warm. And God, I didn't know how much I needed that.
My arms come up around her automatically, and for a second, I just… let myself have it. Let myself be held without expectation. Without judgment. Without needing to be anything.
When she pulls back, she studies my face like she already knows more than I've said.
"I'm glad I came, then," she says softly.
Up close, recognition clicks. "You're—" I squint slightly. "Wait. I know you."
Her mouth curves faintly. Not amused. More like… resigned. "Yeah. You probably do."
It hits me all at once. "Jenna Whitford," I breathe. "Senator Kingsley's daughter."
And then, just as fast, my brow furrows. "Carter Whitford's wife."
Or… widow, I suddenly remember as a headline pops into my head. I remember flashes. News clips. Perfect photos. The golden couple. The tragedy. The sympathy wave. Then the loathing for getting remarried so quickly. I never paid much attention. Why would I? Her world was galaxies away from mine.
But now, standing here? It suddenly doesn't feel so distant. Not at all. Because… we're both widows.
"I saw… some of it," I admit awkwardly. "In the news. I didn't really follow it."
Her husband and son had been taken. Now I feel like a terrible person for not paying more attention to it. God, what she must have gone through.
"You didn't miss much," she shrugs, but I catch a small note of… I can't quite put my finger on it.
She doesn't give me time to puzzle about it too much, because she asks, "You okay?"
I let out a short laugh. "Define okay."
She tilts her head, and there is something in her eyes. "Try me."
It's not a challenge. More like commiseration.
I invite her into the kitchen area, "Coffee?"
"Sounds great," she nods, taking a chair on one of the barstools by the counter.
It's a weird feeling being here in Gabe's kitchen, playing hostess, but strangely, also kind of normal.
I program the machine for two cups, and it starts grinding the beans while I go in search of sugar and creamer.
Gabe was right, I do require an ungodly amount of creamer and sugar.
So does Jenna apparently, as between the two of us, we almost empty the entire creamer bottle.
"I'm so sorry you lost your husband." My words seem so weak, so hypocritical, because I have no idea what she must have gone through.
She waves me off. "Don't be. Our marriage wasn't at all what it looked like."
Her tone, the way she holds herself, reopens a wound in me. One I haven't told anybody about yet, one that's nearly killing me. "I was going to leave Pete that day…" I confess.
I don't know why. But Jenna feels like someone I could trust. Her marriage to a mob boss should be a big fat red flag, but it's the contrary. Or maybe I just need to finally let it out. Confess my sins, so to speak.
She nods as if that explained everything. "Good for you. I wish I had had the courage to do so before it all went to shit."
Her bluntness takes me by surprise, but it's also refreshing. The dam breaks. "Am I a terrible person?" Tears fill my eyes, and I wave my hand, "I'm sorry. You don't know me, and here I am bawling and?—"
"I watched my husband die, and I was glad for it. Massimo and I got engaged only a few hours later."