Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Sunny
I’m really starting to regret this whole throw yourself into gala prep thing.
Chef Andre is in his element, and here I am, standing in the kitchen, surrounded by trays of food I can’t even appreciate.
My hands are busy. My brain is not.
My body is running on autopilot while my mind is still stuck somewhere in the cold hallway, watching Ryder walk away with that woman.
Great. Not like I needed that distraction today.
Chef Andre is barking orders as if he’s auditioning for a reality cooking show, but I’m only half-listening. I’m too busy trying not to think about what’s happening outside the kitchen, and more importantly, who it’s happening with.
I grab a fig and goat cheese tartlet, a dish I absolutely love, thinking that food will take my mind off things. I’m practically salivating at the thought of it. Sweet, creamy, and savory all rolled into one beautiful bite.
I chew.
Big mistake.
For a second, everything seems normal.
And then it hits.
My stomach flips like I just went on a roller coaster I didn’t sign up for. The tartlet, usually a gift from the gods, is suddenly a brick sitting in my stomach.
The smell, the taste… it’s all wrong. My body is suddenly rebelling against something I’ve loved for years.
My mouth goes dry, my chest tightens, and before I know it, I’m standing there, frozen, staring at the half-eaten tartlet like it’s some cruel joke.
I’m not sure if I’m going to puke or pass out, but both options are a real possibility at this point.
I set the tartlet down like its toxic waste, my hands trembling ever so slightly. I try to swallow, to get my act together, but it’s no use. I feel off.
Just what I needed. Now I’m one of those people who can’t even eat a fig tart without losing it.
I look at Chef Andre, who’s talking about something probably vital, but all I can hear is the ringing in my ears. His words are so far off in the distance, and the nausea is suddenly too much to ignore.
I barely make it through the next few seconds before I’m excusing myself with what I’m sure sounds very lame. “I just need a second.”
I rush into the hallway, trying not to show that I’m losing my mind, but it’s all I can do to keep from collapsing against the wall.
I lean against it, feeling the coolness seep into my skin as I take deep breaths, willing myself to stop feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck.
What the hell is happening? I’m probably just stressed out. I mean, it could be because I skipped breakfast, or I’m just on some weird adrenaline high from the hotel chaos. That makes sense, right?
Back in my office, I collapse into the chair. The day is spinning, and I’m caught in its whirlwind, barely holding on. I stare at the walls for a second, focusing on nothing at all.
The warm cinnamon scent from downstairs is still lingering in the air, mixing with the smell of old books and paperwork. Anything familiar that I can use to ground myself.
I take a few deep breaths, willing the nausea to pass, but it doesn’t. In fact, the tightness in my chest only seems to get worse.
What is wrong with me?
I sit up straighter and shake my head, trying to dismiss the way my body feels like it’s failing me.
“It’s just PMS,” I mutter aloud, as if saying it will make it accurate. “It’s exhaustion. You’ve been running on fumes for weeks. That’s all. Stress. Lack of sleep. There’s no reason to overthink this.”
But my stomach churns again. My body doesn’t seem to be listening to my mental pep talk.
I grab a glass of water and take a sip, hoping it’ll settle the weird buzzing in my veins. I’ve never felt so disconnected from my own body before. And I can’t quite figure out why.
Before I can spiral too much, the door to my office opens, and Ryder walks in.
He’s back!
But he looks… off. More tense than I’ve ever seen him. His jaw is tight, his eyes stormy, and his tie is already pulled loose. He walks in like a man who’s been dragged through hell and is just barely holding it together.
He doesn’t say anything at first. He drops into the chair across from me with a long, low groan that’s almost animalistic in its frustration.
“Everything okay?” I ask, trying to sound casual, even though I can feel the tension rolling off him in waves.
“Don’t ask,” he mutters. “My mother… weaponized charm.”
I blink at him, taken aback. “What happened?”
He rubs a hand over his face, looking both exhausted and furious. “She showed up here like some … of… brand ambassador or some shit, trying to drag me back into that nightmare of a reunion movie. She’s relentless. I told her it was a no-go, but she just… won’t let it go.”
He slumps back in the chair, staring at the ceiling like it might offer him an escape.
“It’s always the same with her. Always about her. Always about the image. The damn brand.” He pauses, the bitterness heavy in the air. “And I’m just the product.”
I feel the urge to reach across the desk, to offer him comfort, but I hold back. I know this is something he’s been carrying for years.
I open my mouth to speak, but then I stop myself. What could I possibly say? The last thing he needs right now is another person telling him everything’s going to be fine.
I don’t say anything at first. I just let the silence stretch, giving him the space he needs. He needs to breathe, to settle, and I’m not going to rush him.
But then, when I’m about to say something too heavy, too meaningless, I remember the peppermint cocoa I’ve been too nervous to drink. The one I made for myself this morning, but never actually managed to take a sip from.
I slide the mug across the desk toward him, offering it up because it’s the least I can do. “You want something warm to take the edge off? I’ve got cocoa. It’s probably not great, but… you know. I made it with love.”
Ryder doesn’t look at the mug at first. He stares at the desk, his brow furrowed, his thoughts clearly somewhere else.
But after a beat, he glances down at it and cracks a half-smile, though it’s still strained. It’s just for show.
He picks up the mug, holding it like it’s some fragile thing, and takes a long sip, his eyes closing for a moment as if the warmth is cooling him down. The tension in his shoulders doesn’t completely disappear, but the slight relaxation is there, if only for a second.
“Thanks,” he mutters softly. “I needed that.”
I observe him, the storm still simmering beneath the surface.
After a long moment of silence, he leans back in the chair and, with a heavy sigh, starts talking again, this time more quietly. “She doesn’t know when to stop, Sunny. I don’t even know what to do with her anymore.”
I tilt my head slightly, encouraging him to keep going. I know this is hard for him. The words don’t come easily, and I can see it in his eyes. He’s struggling to let it all out.
“She’s been playing this game for years,” he continues bitterly.
“When I was younger, it was about fame. Always about the next big thing, the next project. She didn’t care if I was exhausted or if I hated it.
She pushed me until I was nothing but the product she could sell.
And now, even after all these years, all she sees is the brand.
Me as some kind of commodity, not as her son. ”
I bite my lip, wishing there was something I could say to make this easier for him. I can see the way his jaw tightens, the frustration and pain leaking through even though he’s trying to keep it contained.
I wish I could take the anger from him, but I know I can’t.
“She shows up here like she’s got some right to waltz back into my life just because the hotel is getting attention,” he mutters, running a hand through his already messy hair.
“The reunion movie, the comeback she keeps going on about. She wants to sell that story so bad she can’t even see straight.
I’m not doing it, but she won’t accept that.
Not when she’s finally getting the spotlight again.
I don’t know how to shake her now that the whole world’s watching, Sunny. ”
I nod slowly, absorbing his words, letting them sink in. I’m not sure what to say to that, so I don’t. Instead, I watch him, let him process it out loud. I don’t know if he’s ever been this open with anyone.
And as much as I want to offer him something that will take the edge off, I know it’s not about me fixing it. He’s not asking for solutions. He’s just… talking. And that’s enough.
“I don’t know how to handle this,” he says after a moment. “She’s got this hold on me. It’s like she’s always one step ahead, always manipulating things, even when I think I’ve cut her out of my life.”
I swallow hard. There’s a tightness in my throat that I can’t quite explain, but I understand now. Understand how much this has affected him, how much it still hurts. He’s not just angry. He’s wounded.
I sit there for a moment, taking it all in. The pain, the frustration in his voice, the way his shoulders slump with everything he’s carrying. It’s raw. Real. And it hits me harder than I expect.
I’ve always seen Ryder as this composed, guarded man, but now, sitting across from him, I realize how much of that is a facade. Underneath, there’s someone who’s been broken by the expectations of others, by a mother who sees him as a product, not a person.
And it’s not just anger I feel for him. It’s something more protective.
Without thinking, I push my chair back and move toward him. It’s an instinct. A need to offer comfort, to let him know he’s not alone in this, even if I don’t have all the answers.
He doesn’t need solutions right now. He needs to feel seen. Heard. Less… alone.
I don’t even pause. I reach out and wrap my arms around him.
At first, there’s nothing—a moment of stillness. And then, as if he finally allows himself to feel it, his body softens, and he exhales slowly. He’s been holding his breath for too long.
He doesn’t pull away. Instead, his arms come around me, hesitantly at first, as if testing the waters. And then he holds me tighter, his grip desperate, like he’s afraid the moment will slip away.
I rest my head against his chest, feeling the warmth of his body seep into mine. The rhythmic sound of his breathing steadies me, and for a moment, this is precisely where I need to be with him.
I feel his chest rise and fall with a shaky breath. And for the first time since I’ve met him, I feel like I’m seeing the real Ryder.
Not the composed, brooding billionaire, but the man who’s been hurting for far too long, trying to handle it all on his own.
And I’m here for him.