Chapter 35
Noah
I don’t know why I agreed to this dinner. It’s going to be a total disaster; I already know that. Going through the interrogation Ezra has in store for me is bad enough, but having it in the same room with Beatrice is much worse.
But since Ezra was getting suspicious of my silence today and that traitor George spilled that he picked me up from Bea’s place with a black eye, I might as well face the worst tonight and be done with it.
There’s no way my face will heal in a couple of days anyway, so people finding out that something happened is just a matter of time.
Plus I need to update Ezra on the project.
I didn’t want to mention anything until I knew how long it would take to fix.
I stand outside Ezra’s door for a solid minute, debating whether to turn around and go back home. My ribs throb with every breath, I look and feel like hell, and I’m about to walk into what will undoubtedly be the most awkward dinner of my life.
What possessed me to say yes? I should be at home, nursing my injuries with whiskey and painkillers, not voluntarily subjecting myself to Ezra’s questioning.
And certainly not putting myself in the same room as Bea after what happened last night and this morning.
I wasn’t joking when I called her mine, and she seemed to want that too.
So seeing her without being able to touch her seems like a torture I’m not ready for just yet.
Bea. Just thinking her name sends a jolt through me that pinballs off my injured ribs.
The memory of her lips against mine, her hands in my hair, the soft sounds she made when I touched her—it’s all burned into my brain like a brand.
And now I have to sit across from her at my brother’s dinner table and pretend none of it happened.
How can I taste food when all I can taste on my tongue is her?
I adjust my jacket, wincing as the movement pulls at my bruised ribs, and finally knock. Maybe she won’t be here. Maybe she made an excuse and left already. Maybe—
The door swings open, and there’s Ezra, looking annoyingly perfect in his chef’s apron, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. His eyes widen slightly as he takes in my appearance, and so do mine, mostly because I’ve never seen my brother so domesticated.
“Jesus, Noah.” He steps aside to let me in, his gaze cataloging every visible injury. “What the hell happened to you? George told me you hit your eye, but damn, this is bad.”
“Food poisoning,” I say flatly, brushing past him into the penthouse. “Really aggressive strain.”
“Are you back to that?” His voice drops with a warning.
To what? He has never known that I used to frequent fight clubs. There were weeks when we didn’t see each other, even working in the same building. Marrying the Wrong girl has made him soft, apparently they do that to men.
I don’t answer, too busy scanning the open living space for any sign of honey-blond hair. The kitchen is visible from here, and I can hear voices—Maeve’s laugh, Martin’s dramatic commentary, and underneath it all, a softer voice that makes my chest tighten.
She’s still here. Of course she is. Thank fuck she is.
“Noah!” Maeve calls out, appearing in the kitchen doorway with a wine glass in hand. Her smile falters slightly when she sees my face. “Oh my god, what happened?”
“Your husband’s already heard the food poisoning story,” I mutter, following Ezra toward the kitchen. “I’ll stick with that.”
As we enter the kitchen, my eyes immediately find Bea sitting at the marble counter, and everything else fades into the background.
She’s wearing a soft blue sweater that brings out her eyes, her hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders.
She looks beautiful and completely miserable, her knuckles white around her wine glass.
Our eyes meet for a split second, and I watch her face go pale. Then her gaze starts darting around the kitchen as if searching for an escape route. My chest tightens at her obvious discomfort, and I hate that I’m the cause of it.
“Well, don’t you look like death warmed over,” Martin drawls, eyeing me with undisguised interest. “Food poisoning, was it? Must have been quite the toxic meal.”
I force a smile that feels more like a grimace. “Something like that.”
“Noah, sit down before you fall down,” Ezra orders, gesturing to an empty stool at the kitchen island. It’s right next to Bea. Of course it is.
I hesitate for a fraction of a second, then slide onto the stool, careful to leave appropriate space between us.
The scent of her perfume hits me immediately—that same warmth that clung to her sheets, that I breathed in all night.
My body reacts before my brain can stop it, a rush of heat flooding through me at the memory of her curled against me in the darkness, and I feel myself stiffen in this very inappropriate situation.
“Wine?” Maeve offers, already pouring a glass before I can answer. Her eyes dart toward Bea every few seconds.
“Thanks.”
The kitchen falls into an awkward silence.
I can feel Ezra’s eyes on my face, studying the purple bruises.
Martin’s gaze bounces between me and Bea with growing interest, like he’s piecing together a particularly juicy puzzle.
He’s always been the gossip queen of King Developers, and usually I’m the one benefiting from the rumors he collects. Usually.
“Wine, Bea?” Maeve asks, moving toward her with the bottle. “You look like you could use a refill.”
Bea slides her glass forward, and I watch her slightly trembling fingers gripping the stem tighter. The awkwardness pressing in from all sides is suffocating. I take a larger sip of wine, letting the alcohol burn a path down my throat and distract me from the moment.
“So,” Martin drawls, leaning forward with his elbows on the counter, “are we going to address the elephant in the room, or shall we continue pretending Noah’s face doesn’t look like it went through ten rounds with Mike Tyson?”
“Martin,” Ezra warns, but not very wholeheartedly—the curiosity in his voice is loud.
“What?” Martin shrugs innocently. “I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. Unless food poisoning causes bruised knuckles now?” He gestures to my hand wrapped around the wine glass, where the evidence of my fight is still visible despite my efforts to hide it.
I feel Bea stiffen beside me. Her palpable discomfort radiates off her in waves, and I hate that I’ve put her in this position.
“It’s nothing,” I say firmly, meeting Martin’s gaze with a challenge. “Drop it.”
“Oh, but where’s the fun in that?” Martin smirks, swirling his wine with theatrical flair. “Oh wait, I know. You probably left all the fun at Beatrice’s building.”
Bea’s glass clicks on the table as she starts coughing, and I gently tap her back. Great, everyone seems to be in the know.
Maeve moves between us with the wine bottle still in her hand, looking from person to person around the kitchen island.
“Actually,” Maeve says suddenly, lighting up as she sets down the bottle, “you all have to see my newest design. It just came back from the sample room yesterday!”
The abrupt change of subject sends a wave of relief through me so powerful I nearly slump over. She’s giving us an out—or maybe she just can’t contain her excitement. Either way, she’s my savior.
“Oh, do tell!” Martin clasps his hands together, immediately distracted by the promise of fashion. “Is it the jacket with the asymmetrical lapels you were sketching last month?”
“Even better,” Maeve grins, her entire demeanor shifting as she slides into her element. “It’s a completely reimagined take on the classic power suit. I’m calling it ‘The Executive.’”
Ezra looks at his wife with such naked adoration it’s almost embarrassing to witness. “Show them, honey. It’s incredible.”
“Back in a flash!” Maeve disappears down the hallway, her excitement palpable.
I take advantage of the momentary distraction to glance at Bea. She’s staring into her wine glass, her profile illuminated by the pendant lights above the island. The soft glow catches the gold in her hair, and I have to physically restrain myself from reaching out to touch it.
“Are you okay?” I whisper, leaning slightly closer while Martin peppers Ezra with questions about the design process.
Her head snaps up at my whisper, those blue eyes finally meeting mine. “I’m fine,” she hisses, barely moving her lips.
“You said that before,” I murmur, keeping my voice low enough that only she can hear. “But you look like you want to disappear.”
“Can you blame me?” She takes a long sip from her glass, darting her eyes nervously to where Martin and Ezra are still deep in conversation. “This is torture, and you know it.”
Before I can respond, Maeve bursts back into the room, holding up what at first looks like a black blazer on a silk hanger. It’s unlike anything I’ve seen before—structured but somehow fluid, with clean lines that seem to shift as she moves it.
“Ta-da!” she announces proudly. “The Executive!”
Martin gasps dramatically, one hand flying to his chest. “Oh my god, it’s even better than I imagined! Look at those seams—they’re practically invisible!”
Everyone gravitates toward Maeve, even Bea, who seems grateful for the distraction. I hang back, watching as Martin runs his fingers reverently over the fabric.
“The construction is something I’m really proud of,” Maeve explains, turning the jacket to show the lining. “See how the panels create a silhouette that’s powerful but still feminine? And the fabric is a custom blend—breathable but structured.”
“I need one immediately,” Martin declares. “In every color you plan to make.”
“Me too,” Bea adds with a small smile.
“I’ll buy it for you,” I say quietly next to her ear, hoping she’ll hear me.
Her head whips toward me, eyes wide with shock. “What? No!”
Everyone turns to look at us, the jacket momentarily forgotten.
“What’s happening over there?” Martin asks, his eyebrows arched with interest.