Chapter Twenty-Four
Isla
A week later…
I lean against the of the bar, my gaze drawn to Walker as he navigates through the throng of people. He exudes wealth and power, and he stands out – he’s a predator, and the people around him know it. I know the press of his body, the heat of his skin, yet even I wouldn’t say I know him. I stay at his place most nights, but I still don’t know him. I did pocket the note he’d written that first day, feeling like there was a reason to hang onto it.
His laugh, a rare sound, meets my ears, rough-edged and genuine. It tugs at something deep in my chest. I glance at him, my body stiffening. His eyes, the ones with tall walls that guard his thoughts, soften as a woman approaches him.
She's all curves and elegance, her red dress bold in our typical crowd. There’s no mistaking her confident strides in those stiletto heels.
“Walker!” Her voice is rich and warm as I try to figure out what the heck is happening.
He turns, and there's that smile again, one that never quite reaches me the same way. They embrace like old friends – or lovers - sharing a history spoken in shorthand that only they can read. My heart constricts, bile rising with jealousy as I watch them. How could he be so obvious? And right in front of me like this?
Her laughter is too happy; I find my hands clenching into fists. Cara had been a passing annoyance, a woman who tried to get Walker’s attention and got fired instead, but this woman... he knows her and she's beauty and poise. I glance down, taking in my plain Jane look, feeling small and ugly.
Is she an old friend, I wonder. I’m trying to dismiss the tightness in my throat and chest. But the jealousy tastes bitter on my tongue because it's not just friendship I see in the way he tilts his head, listening to her every word.
I’m reminded that I’m stupid. A man like Walker doesn't settle, he conquers. And what am I but a territory already surrendered without a fight?
The realization stings, a sharp slap to my already fragile pride. I should have known better than to trust he had my best interests at heart. For all his dominance and power, for all the nights I've laid in his arms, I'm still just the virgin he seduced, another woman he'll forget.
I force myself to look away, to blend back into the scenery, knowing full well that I'm no match for the dark-haired siren in red. She's the kind of woman who belongs in Walker's world – not someone like me.
“Whisky sour?” The words barely register as I reach for the bourbon. My hands shake, not from exhaustion or nerves, but from the pain rising within me.
“Thanks,” the regular says, laying a bill with too many zeros on the bar. His sympathetic eyes meet mine, hinting at an unspoken understanding. I force a smile and thank him as he vanishes off into the crowd. Even the tip is upsetting, it’s a consolation prize I didn't earn. Just like Walker.
I'd rather drown in a shot, see if the burn can chase away the image of Walker's arms around her, but the last time I tried to drink, I was left in pain. Sheesh, I still remember the sharp sting of alcohol in my eye. Even the thought has that eye tearing up. At least, that’s what I’m going to tell myself.
The crowd swells, a night too busy to keep up with thanks to some of the changes Walker has implemented. The serve-your-own beer station has been going great. And for a moment, I'm grateful for the distraction of people and orders.
As the night drags on, I lose sight of Walker. But there’s work to be done, and I keep it up until it’s time to close the place up. Only then do I peek at my phone and see a message from Walker.
I'm going to be out of the country for a meeting.
The letters blur, the words confirming my deepest dread. He's slipping through my fingers, retreating to a world where I cannot follow, where women in red dresses drag him away to “business meetings”. My heart sinks, heavy with the weight of a reality I can no longer deny.
I thumb the screen off. With a breath that feels like the first in hours, I prepare the bar for closing and get things done with my head down and my sleeves rolled up.
I poke at the eggs on my plate with a fork, trying to convince my upset stomach that they’re food and perfectly fine. But my body isn’t having it. The persistent buzz of my phone on the table doesn’t so much as draw a glance from me.
“Isla, you're torturing yourself.” Amber's voice is laced with concern and a hint of exasperation. I glance up, meeting her gaze.
“I'm not torturing myself,” I say, my words lacking conviction as I punctuate them by jabbing my fork viciously into the eggs. “I'm being realistic.”
The phone buzzes, Walker's name flashes across the screen. Without missing a beat, I press decline, wondering what the point of silent mode is if it still buzzes and makes noise.
“Beautiful doesn't mean better, you know.” Amber leans against the counter, arms folded as if she's preparing for battle. “You don't give yourself enough credit.”
“That doesn't change facts,” I say. “And facts say he's a playboy with a penchant for model-types.”
“Isla...” There's a warning in Amber's tone.
“Amber, please.” The plea tumbles out, sounding as weary as I feel. “Just drop it. I don't love him.”
But my heart clenches at the lie.
Three days crawl by with agonizing slowness, each one marked by the silence of my phone – silenced notifications and my ability to ignore the buzzing. My finger hovers over the call log more times than I care to admit, each contact entry and unread message a reminder of what I'm trying to leave behind.
I sit in front of my laptop, looking over my grades. “Top of the class,” I mutter to myself, tracing a line of text with my finger. It should feel triumphant, this academic success, but the pride is overshadowed by the ache of my heart.
Walker's world feels a million miles away now. But I have something of my own to cling to – my career, my success, my independence.
I learned my lesson and I got some amazing memories out of the deal, which I assume, with time, won’t hurt so much.
My life has become a blur of work, sleep, school, and restless nights spent tossing and turning. The clink of glasses and the low hum of conversation are comforting as I wipe down the bar. My mind is elsewhere—on unread messages and unanswered calls. Why is it so hard to just… sever the connection?
The door swings open, jolting me back to the present.
I glance up, and there he is: Walker, parting the crowd like he owns the place. Which is true, so that makes sense. His presence commands everyone’s attention and the buzz of conversations stop. But he seems to notice none of it as he closes the gap between him and me.
“Isla,” he says, his deep, smooth voice stealing all my attention. He's close now, too close, his hand reaching out to stop me as I try to sidestep him, to escape, maybe just disappear.
“Let me go,” I say weakly, but his grasp is firm yet gentle, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that reveals the secret we've been keeping—even from ourselves.
“What happened?” he asks, his thumb stroking the back of my hand, sending a current of unwanted warmth and desire through me. “Why didn't you take my calls?”
“Can we not do this here?” I mutter, glancing around at the prying eyes. Some are patrons I know by name, others coworkers who watch with curiosity.
But I know that Walker won’t stop until he gets the truth out of me. “I... thought you were with that woman in red.”
For a moment, there's a flicker of confusion across his features, a crease forming between his furrowed brows. Then, his expression clears, and the faintest smile plays at the corner of his lips.
“Oh, Isla,” he says. “She's a work associate. And she'd chase you, darling.” His use of the pet name sends a shiver down my spine. “You're jealous.”
There's no point denying it, not when he's looking at me like that, like he can see right through me. I nod, feeling both foolish and relieved—and oddly dizzy.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, almost to himself, as though marveling at a discovery. “Jealous, and for me.”
The bar fades into a blur, the curious gazes melting away until there's nothing but Walker and the heat in his eyes. It's embarrassing, sure, but there's also something thrilling about being the center of his world, if only for this stolen moment.
“Let's talk,” he says, the words not a request, “somewhere private.”
And despite everything, I find myself nodding, following him as he leads me away from the noise, from the stares, into the quiet night where we can tell all our secrets… except the one.