Chapter Twenty-Five
LEONI
I could have said goodbye right then.
He waited, I felt it, like he was giving me the space to end it, to walk away and leave this as a closed chapter. Instead, I headed outside, already expecting the sound of his footsteps behind me.
And he followed.
Talking to him like this, with no audience and no armour, feels different. Softer. We’re both raw, bruised, slightly broken. We aren’t the people we were when this started.
I shove my hands into my pockets as we walk, and Warren falls into step beside me.
“If you could go back,” I say, staring straight ahead, “what would you change?”
I feel his gaze on me before he looks forward too. “There are so many things I’d change, Lee,” he says quietly. “But saying them doesn’t make them possible.”
“If you’d asked me that a week ago,” I admit, “I’d have said I wish I’d never walked into Baxter Corporation.”
“But you wouldn’t say that now?”
I glance at him. “Would it really have changed anything? Isaac would still be dead. And maybe… maybe I would be too. Who knows where your father would have stopped.”
His jaw tightens.
“If only we could go right back to the beginning,” he says. “Make sure our fathers never crossed paths.”
“It was the sins of our fathers that brought us here,” I reply. “And I’ve seen things I wish I hadn’t. I know things I wish I didn’t.” I hesitate, then add, “But I think you really were trying to protect me from it all.”
His laugh is short. Unamused. “I didn’t do a very good job.”
“I saw the funeral,” I say. “Well… what they showed on the news.”
“The final circus act,” he mutters. “I thought I’d feel something. Sadness. Anger.” He exhales. “Instead, it felt like a weight lifting. Like I was finally free.” He glances at me. “Is that cruel?”
“No,” I say immediately. “It’s honest.”
He nods, relieved.
“What about Erik?” I ask. “How is he?”
Something flickers across his face, hesitation, restraint, as though there’s something he wants to say, but chooses not to. “He’s good. He went to Italy. He needed space and family.”
“A fresh start?”
He gives a small, genuine smile. “That’s what he called it. He loves it. My uncle likes having him around.” He pauses a beat. “Maybe he won’t come back.”
“And you?” I ask. “Don’t you ever want to go there? Be with the rest of your family?”
He shakes his head. “I can’t imagine being that far away from you.”
The words land between us, unexpected and exposed. He winces instantly, as if he didn’t mean to say them out loud.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “I didn’t mean…” he sighs. “Even if I can never see you again, I don’t want to be so far away. Just in case.”
I don’t reply, but his words hit my heart, causing it to ache. Because the truth is, I can’t imagine him being that far away either.
We stop outside my apartment building, the moment stretching.
“I know this might sound forward,” I say carefully, “but would you like to come up for a coffee?”
His eyes widen. He wasn’t expecting it. “Uh— yeah. Yeah, I’d really like that.”
I laugh softly at the way he stumbles. “Good,” I say. “Come on.”
We step into my apartment, and I shrug out of my jacket, hanging it over the chair by the door. Warren does the same, placing his carefully over the arm of the sofa.
I move into the kitchen and flick the kettle on.
He appears in the doorway, leaning lightly against the frame, watching me like he’s memorising the moment.
“There is one thing I’d change,” he says.
“Oh yeah?” I reply, reaching for the mugs.
“I wouldn’t have kept anything from you.”
I turn to face him, leaning back against the worktop. “Or fake-dated me to keep your father happy?” I say lightly, the words still causing a slight sting.
His expression shifts instantly. Serious. He steps toward me, then stops himself, remembering he can’t just touch me anymore.
“It wasn’t fake,” he says quietly. “Not for me.” He drags a hand over his brow, breath hitching. “I liked you from the start. And then…” He exhales. “I fell in love,” he almost whispers, like the word scares him, but he’s done running from it. “I love you.”
My chest tightens.
“There was always something about you,” he continues. “Even when you were spilling coffee on my desk. Or wrecking my meetings with your terrible notetaking.” A faint smile tugs at his mouth. “I was intrigued. Drawn in. It was never an act.”
“And Nancy?” I ask, quietly but firmly.
He nods, like he expected the question. “Nancy was… collateral. Deliberate collateral.” His jaw tightens. “My father needed her father. They decided a marriage would secure it. And I went along with it while I tried to manage everything else.” His voice drops. “I shouldn’t have.”
“I saw the engagement’s off,” I say.
“It was never really on,” he replies. He leans against the opposite counter, suddenly looking tired. “That’s how it works in my world. Relationships are transactions. Optics. Leverage.” He shakes his head. “No one marries for love anymore.”
“That’s really sad,” I murmur.
He nods. “It is. But you need to know nothing happened between me and her. When she planted that surprise kiss on me, it was revenge because I’d just told her we weren’t going to get married.”
The kettle clicks off. I pour the water, fix the coffee, and hand him one.
“I didn’t reach out,” he says after a moment, his eyes fixed on the mug, “because I didn’t want to pressure you. Or corner you.” He looks up then. “I just didn’t want you thinking I stayed away because I didn’t care.”
Something shifts in my chest. Not forgiveness. But understanding.
“I didn’t come after you,” he finishes quietly, “because loving you meant letting you breathe, letting you decide if you loved me enough not only to forgive me, but also to be in my world.”
The silence that follows is heavy, but not uncomfortable.
I take a breath. “How about we start again?” I place my cup down and hold out my hand. “Hi,” I say lightly. “I’m Leoni Dove.”
He blinks, then a slow smile spreads across his face as he sets his coffee down too and takes my hand.
“I’m Warren Baxter,” he replies. “Great to meet you.”
My eyes widen dramatically. “Wow,” I gasp. “The Warren Baxter?”
He lets out a quiet laugh, his thumb brushing once over my knuckles. “If you’re going to mock me—”
“Oh, I am,” I interrupt. “But I think you can take it. So, I hear you’re intense. You like your steak cooked a very specific way, and you’re terrible with names.”
He winces. “That rumour’s exaggerated.”
“Is it?” I arch a brow. “Because I distinctly remember someone calling my colleague Tracey.”
“In my defence she never corrected me.” Then he groans, “Oh my God, when I think of all the times I called her that.”
I smile, really smile this time. “So, first impressions?”
He pretends to consider it. “You’re funny. Sharp. Slightly terrifying.” His gaze softens. “And nothing like I expected.”
“Good,” I say. “I’d hate to disappoint.”
“And impressions of me?” he asks.
I take a moment. “Controlled, serious, a little sharp around the edges. Slightly intimidating.” He arches a brow. “But,” I add, smiling. “Underneath all that, funny, protective, and caring.”
We’re still holding hands when it hits me, not the past, not the hurt, but the quiet possibility of something new. Something better that we’re creating out of choice.
“Coffee?” I ask, nodding toward the mugs we’ve abandoned.
He squeezes my hand once before letting go. “I’d like that.”
We sit on the sofa, coffee cooling between us as conversation drifts into easy things like work and life in general. We laugh together at nothing especially funny, but I guess we’re both feeling giddy that we’ve found a way to move past all the bad stuff and take a step forward.
At some point, without thinking about it, I lean into him.
He stills instantly. I feel the question in his body before he asks it, so I answer by resting my head against his shoulder like it’s no big deal.
He exhales, slow and careful, like he’s been holding that breath for weeks, and then his arm comes around me gently.
“I’m not promising anything,” I murmur.
“I wouldn’t ask you to,” he replies quietly.
I tip my face up to his. “But I’d like to try again, a fresh start.”
“You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to hear those words,” he says.
I close the gap, my lips brushing his. Gentle, careful, and wanted. It isn’t rushed. Or hungry. Or desperate.
It’s steady.
When I pull back, his forehead rests against mine.
“Hi,” he says, softer this time.
“Hi,” I answer.
And for the first time since everything broke apart, I feel whole again. Like we’re just starting our journey.