Chapter 20
NOAH
“Are you fucking him?” The words spill out sharp and brittle—too loud in the quiet hallway.
Gabriel freezes mid-knock. His fists hover inches from my door, knuckles pale, shoulders rigid. Slowly, he turns.
“Well, hi sweetheart.” His voice is too casual, but I hear the breathy sigh of relief underneath it.
I fold my arms across my chest, the weight of everything I’ve been feeling crashing into me all at once. Anger, confusion… and god, disappointment.
“I asked,” I say, steadying my voice even though my pulse is tripping over itself. “If you’re fucking him.”
I want him to deny it, to make it make sense. But I also kind of want him to hurt a little. Like I am.
Gabriel reaches for me, but I take a quick step back. No way. Not yet.
He lets his hands fall, then shoves them into his pockets, stepping back like he knows he’s one wrong move from me slamming the door in his face. “No, beautiful. I’m not sleeping with Elijah. Can we talk upstairs?”
I don’t answer him. I just swipe my keycard, push the door open, and slip through the narrow gap, leaving barely enough room for my own body, let alone an invitation. Maybe I’m hoping he’ll take the hint and walk away.
Or maybe I’m hoping he won’t.
But before the door can latch, he moves. Quick as silver. His arm slides through the gap, palm braced against the wood. I whip around, breath caught in my throat.
“Please, Noah.” His voice is low, strained. “Come upstairs with me.”
I grit my teeth so hard I feel pressure in my head. “You don’t live upstairs,” I snap, even though he kind of does, but that’s not the point. Honestly, I don’t even have a point.
Wait. Maybe I do. He may still have a room in the penthouse, but he’s been staying at my place more nights than not, slipping into my space like he belongs here. And when he’s not here, he’s been renting a fancy hotel room across the river.
So, there. Point!
Except… maybe it’s not. I’m not even sure anymore. My brain is doing somersaults, and I feel kind of dizzy.
“I’m aware.” He sighs, tired and tense. His arm is still wedged there, like he’s afraid that if he lets go, I’ll vanish for good.
“But Elijah and Alex are in Puerto Rico for the week. I need a good soak in the hot tub, and I would love for you to join me. I promise, sweetheart, Elijah won’t mind.
” His voice softens, almost pleading. “Just give me the chance to explain some things to you, baby.”
I open the door a little wider, just enough to relieve the pressure on his arm. He pulls it back slowly, like he’s afraid too much movement might shatter the fragile truce between us.
“Did you just say Alex is in Puerto Rico?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.
He shrugs, sheepishly. “Well… technically, I said Elijah and Alex are in Puerto Rico.”
“But I just saw Alex last night,” I shoot back, almost whining. My mind flashes to him—Alex—eyes nearly wet from the rain, or maybe my own tears, tracing the lines of my tattoo coiling down my leg. There was something there. Recognition. Or something close to it.
Gabriel leans forward, resting his forehead against the doorframe, watching me with those infuriatingly beautiful gray eyes. I hate how much I still want to get lost in them.
He says nothing. And in that silence, all the questions—my confusion, my frustration, the sharp prickle of jealousy and guilt—press in like too many fingers on a piano key. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to will the chaos into stillness.
“I believe he left sometime this morning,” he says gently, carefully. “But I assure you, Alex is in Puerto Rico. I can call him, if you’d like?” He lifts his phone, already scrolling.
Tears sting the back of my eyes, but I refuse to let them loose. No. I’m not crying over this—not in front of him.
“Just leave, Gabriel,” I say, the words low but steady. “I don’t feel comfortable soaking in their hot tub, and I really don’t want to hear anything you have to say. Hearing Elijah’s name was enough.” I swallow hard, trying to keep it together. “You hurt me.”
Silence stretches between us like a string being pulled too tight. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just looks at me with something raw in his eyes—like he finally understands the weight of what he’s done.
He scrubs his hands across his face, exhaling hard. “Did you get the roses, sweetheart?”
I step back and open the door wider. The mess is impossible to miss—petals scattered like a bruised ego, stems twisted in a tangle of broken glass and shallow puddles from the shattered vase.
His eyes go wide. “What in the—” He steps inside slowly, careful not to crunch anything beneath his polished shoes. “Dios mío.” He breathes, bending to pick up a single stem, its bloom gone.
“I didn’t… I didn’t…” I stutter, fisting my fingers. “They were beautiful.”
He looks up at me, still holding the broken stem, nodding like what I said makes sense. “Let me help you clean this up, chulo.”
But I shake my head, voice almost a whisper. “You hurt me.”
The words fall heavier this time. I don’t say them to guilt him—I say them because they’re the only thing that feels honest right now. I want to let go of this anger, I really do. I wish we weren’t standing in the middle of this mess. In the wreckage of something that almost was.
I pout without meaning to, hating how vulnerable I feel. Hating even more how much I still want him despite everything that’s happened.
I’d been ready to give myself to him—completely. Let him see the storm I keep locked behind my eyes. I would have taken him into the rain, let him feel the ache that lives just beneath my skin. I was ready… ready to let him love me.
And I would have loved him back. Even with my heart still quietly aching for someone else.
But now it’s raining. Again.
“I know, sweetheart. I know.”
Gabriel’s voice is low, heavy with regret. He reaches over the shattered shards of glass and takes my hand with a gentleness that makes my chest ache. “Nothing I say can change what happened,” he murmurs, “but at least give me the chance to explain.”
His thumb moves slowly over my knuckles, soft and steady. Then he lifts my hand to his lips—those soft Spanish lips—and just like that, I surrender. Not with words, not with promises… but with the smallest tilt of my body toward his, the quietest sigh past my lips.
“I’m sorry about the roses,” I whisper, eyes stinging.
I blink hard and step carefully around the glass, the sound of it crunching faint beneath my sneakers.
When I reach him, the scent of him surrounds me—warm spice, crushed petals, and something uniquely his.
I close the space between us, resting against him like I’ve been trying not to all along.
“Sweetheart.” He breathes, kissing the top of my head. His fingers smooth gently through my hair before tilting my chin up, his gaze searching mine.
“Let’s get this cleaned up, beautiful,” he says softly. “I’ll buy you more roses.”
It’s such a simple thing. But somehow, it feels like a promise.