Chapter 11 #2
For the first time, I wasn’t sure if Creed would come back. And maybe—for the first time—I wasn’t sure I wanted him to.
* * *
THE PARKING GARAGE was quiet in the way only executive floors ever were—polished concrete, muted lighting, the faint hum of the building settling into its Monday rhythm. Everything here was designed to absorb sound, to keep movement discreet, controlled. Even the silence felt curated.
I eased my car down the ramp, tires whispering over concrete, the faint scent of chlorine and cotton candy still clinging to my coat from the weekend. It lingered stubbornly, sweet, and artificial and out of place here. A reminder that I hadn’t come straight from silence.
Great Wolf Lodge had been loud. Chaotic. Sticky. Exhausting.
And exactly what I’d needed.
Two days of water slides, shrieking laughter, and sticky fingers in mine had scrubbed something raw out of my chest. It hadn’t erased anything, but it had reset me.
Recentered me. Reminded me who I was when I wasn’t bracing for impact, when my nervous system wasn’t aligned to anticipate a man entering a room.
I turned the corner toward my assigned parking spot and stopped with my foot on the brake.
Creed was already there.
Standing beside his car. Engine off. Door closed. Briefcase resting on the hood like he’d set it down deliberately, knowing he’d need both hands free.
He hadn’t just arrived.
He’d been waiting.
The realization didn’t spike my pulse the way it once would have. It settled instead—heavy, deliberate. A fact, not a threat.
I pulled into my space, cut the engine, and stepped out, the sound of my door echoing too loudly in the stillness. The click reverberated between us, sharp and final.
Beneath a wool coat, his white shirt was open at the collar. No tie. No jacket buttoned. Composed, unhurried, eyes already sharp on me the second I exited my vehicle.
“Good morning,” he said.
Not an apology for Friday.
A declaration of normalcy he hadn’t earned.
I locked my car calmly. The deliberate click felt like punctuation. “It is.”
Creed straightened, stepping into my periphery without crowding me. He didn’t need to invade space to command it. He never had.
“You didn’t answer my calls.”
“I was busy,” I said, sliding my laptop bag onto my shoulder.
“With what?”
I turned to face him fully. “With my life.”
Something flickered in his eyes—not anger. Assessment. The reflex of a man who reorganized the world the moment it slipped from his control. Then it was gone, sealed behind calculation.
“You disappeared all weekend,” he said evenly. “No explanation.”
“I don’t owe you one.”
Silence dropped between us, dense and deliberate. The kind of silence he used to weaponize. This time, it belonged to me.
“You’re acting different,” he observed.
I almost smiled. “I spent the weekend with my girls. No phones. Just fun.”
His jaw tightened—not jealousy. Recognition. As if he understood, on some level, exactly what kind of power that held.
“And?” he prompted.
“And I remembered what it feels like not to brace myself every time someone walks into the room.”
That landed. I felt it in the subtle shift of his stance, the way his shoulders squared as if against impact.
He stepped closer, stopping at a distance that respected exactly how much ground I’d claimed.
“I don’t chase,” he said quietly.
“I know,” I replied. “You wait. You let people orbit you until they forget where they started.”
His mouth curved—not quite a smile. More truth than amusement. “You never orbited.”
“No,” I said. “I met you wherever you stood. And that’s the problem.”
His gaze sharpened. “Say what you mean.”
“I mean I won’t be pulled into your gravity anymore.”
A beat passed. Then another.
“You’re asking me to choose,” he said.
“I’m not asking,” I replied. “I already decided.”
I stepped past him, feeling the air shift as I broke the line between us.
“Peyton,” he said, low and deliberate.
I stopped. Turned just enough to meet his gaze.
“When you come back,” he said, “it won’t be because—”
“I won’t come back,” I cut in evenly, “unless you choose me.”
I walked toward the elevator.
Didn’t look back.
Because this time—
If Creed Kirkland followed, it would be as a man who decided.
Not a man who waited too long.
* * *
ON TUESDAY, I CALLED in sick.
By Wednesday morning, the office knew I wasn’t coming in all week.
Celine handled it cleanly—calendar updated, meetings rerouted, my inbox filtered. Officially, I was working remotely due to a family illness.
Unofficially?
Aunt Ruth was battling a cold. After my encounter with Creed in the parking garage, it felt like the perfect time to put the needs of my family first. And my own.
Creed called twice before noon.
I didn’t answer.
He texted me once.
Where are you?
I stared at the screen longer than necessary before replying.
Working from home.
If you need anything, reach out to my assistant.
Professional. Polite. Closed.
I set the phone face down on the kitchen counter and didn’t touch it again.
Aunt Ruth’s bedroom smelled faintly of eucalyptus and honey, the kind of soft, medicinal comfort that carried childhood memories and steady hands. She was propped up against a stack of pillows, wrapped in one of her old quilts, cheeks flushed from fever but eyes still sharp.
I carried the tray carefully—tea, lemon, and a spoon balanced on the saucer.
“Careful,” she teased weakly. “You’d think you were diffusing a bomb.”
“Given the last few weeks,” I said, setting the cup on her bedside table, “I’m qualified.”
She smiled, then studied me the way she always did—quiet, assessing, seeing straight through whatever armor I thought I was wearing.
“You’re still home,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
“I’m working,” I corrected. “And helping you.”
She lifted a brow. “I feel fine. It’s nothing a few days of rest and hydration can’t cure.”
“I needed a change of scenery.”
“Hmm,” she murmured. “Funny how that happens when hearts get loud.”
I sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing the blanket over her legs. “Drink your tea.”
She took a sip, watching me over the rim of the cup. “How are things with Creed?”
There it was.
Outside, the wind moved through the trees, bare branches scratching lightly against the window. Quiet. Domestic. Safe.
“I stepped back from that,” I said finally.
Her lips curved. “You don’t step back from anything unless you’ve already decided something.”
I shrugged. “I decided I won’t keep fighting alone.”
Aunt Ruth nodded slowly, as if that confirmed something she already knew. “That man carries control like a weapon,” she said. “But he doesn’t know what to do with tenderness.”
I huffed a breath. “That’s generous.”
“Truth doesn’t need generosity,” she replied. “It just needs time. I’ve seen the way he is with the twins. He adores them.”
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Aunt Ruth glanced at the screen—and then, unmistakably, blushed.
I froze. “Was that...?”
She cleared her throat, suddenly interested in adjusting the blanket. “Marco.”
I stared at her. “Marco Vincenzo?”
“The same,” she said, entirely too pleased.
“That bastard is still calling you?”
She shot me a look. “Language.”
“Why is he calling you?”
She smiled, soft and almost shy. “He called last week to check on me.”
Something warm and complicated settled in my chest.
“And?” I prompted.
“And I enjoyed it,” she admitted.
“But he’s dangerous,” I said softly.
“Yes, I know.” Aunt Ruth paused, taking another sip. “But I enjoyed being asked how I was. I enjoyed being seen as a woman—not just someone’s aunt or someone’s caregiver.”
Her gaze drifted toward the window. “Marco’s complicated. And infuriating. And yes, dangerous in his own way.”
She looked back at me. “But I liked how I felt when he was here. Even if it was for all the wrong reasons.”
The words landed harder than she probably intended.
I remembered her humming in the kitchen. The way she’d smiled while getting dressed. The excitement of dinner and theater and being chosen.
“You deserve that,” I said quietly.
“Yes,” she agreed. “But not from a man who threatened my family.”
Silence stretched between us, thick and uncomfortable.
My phone buzzed from the kitchen.
I didn’t move. I recognized the ringtone.
Creed.
“Good for you,” Aunt Ruth said gently, reaching for my hand. “Let him feel the quiet. Men like that don’t understand absence until it answers them back.”
I squeezed her fingers, steady.
For the first time in weeks, I wasn’t waiting.
I was deciding.
And Aunt Ruth was right.
Creed Kirkland was beginning to understand what silence actually sounded like—when it wasn’t his choice.