Chapter 14
I have a lot of free time.
I never thought I’d say that. But here I am, two days after the… explosion, meltdown—whatever you want to call what happened in Enzo’s office—and I have nothing but time. I have no idea what the hell to do with it.
There were so many things I used to fantasize about doing when I was drowning in work—reading the old paperbacks gathering dust on my shelf, learning how to crochet, going on early-morning runs like people in those aesthetic TikToks.
Now that I could do all of it?
I want none of it.
All I want is to rot in bed. Eat until I’m embarrassingly full. Sleep. Repeat.
Maybe this is my body shutting down. Maybe it’s a depressive episode. Or maybe… maybe it’s just that Enzo came too late.
God, I wanted him sooner.
Wanted him proud, not ashamed.
Wanted him to choose me when it mattered—not when I’d already packed my bags and stepped out of his life.
Don’t I deserve to be someone’s first choice? Not someone’s “maybe” or “almost” or “not yet”?
Everyone deserves to be chosen.
And even if Enzo showed up right now with his heart on a fucking silver platter…
I don’t want it.
Because he didn’t choose me when it counted.
He was always first for me.
I want a partner who treats me the same.
Is that really so unrealistic?
You know what? Screw it.
If I want to eat junk and be a vegetable today, I will. I grab my keys, head out, and end up in the supermarket, wandering the aisles like a zombie in search of snacks. Then I hear footsteps slow beside me.
Oh God. It’s Luke.
My face instantly heats. He’s the last person I want to run into—especially after Enzo nearly launched him into another dimension outside my apartment door.
I debate hiding behind the cereal shelf like a lunatic, but he’s already seen me.
“Mila?” he says.
“Hey. Hi. Uh… hey.”
Smooth. Fantastic.
“How are you?”
“I’m fine,” I lie with the enthusiasm of a soggy napkin. “Sorry about… the other night. That was—”
“Insane?” he offers.
“Mortifying,” I correct.
He laughs under his breath.
“Anyway, I’m really, really sorry. That shouldn’t have happened,” I mumble.
“It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re okay.”
There’s a beat of comfortable silence before he says, “Listen… if that guy isn’t actually your boyfriend, and if you’re not secretly engaged or in some mafia-type contract—”
I snort. “I promise I’m not.”
“Good. Because I wanted to ask for your number last time. Before Terminator came charging in. Can I have it?”
I hesitate. But truly, what’s the harm? I need to get out of my own head.
“Yeah. Okay.”
He takes my phone, enters his number, calls himself, and hands it back with a small smile.
“I want to take you out,” he says. “Tonight, if you’re up for it.”
I deserve to feel alive again. I need drinks, laughter, and nice company—maybe even get laid.
“Yeah,” I say. “Tonight works.”
Back at my apartment, I kick off my shoes and shrug out of my jacket, tossing it on the couch. I take a moment for myself, put on music—something a little sultry—and sing badly into a hairbrush.
I find my nail polish and paint my nails red, a color I’ve never worn before. I sit cross-legged on the floor, humming along, my hair falling in messy waves around my shoulders.
By late afternoon, I decide to actually get dressed. I pick out jeans and a simple top, but my hands hover over the drawer. I haven’t touched my lingerie in months.
I slip into a black set, savoring the feel of silk and lace against my skin. It’s not for anyone else. It’s for me.
When Luke calls, I’m curled up on the couch in full glam. He’s waiting downstairs with that easy grin, and I catch myself twisting a strand of hair around my finger as I approach the car.
We drive in silence for a few blocks, city lights streaming across the windshield. The bar is small and messy, a jukebox playing some old rock song. It’s not what I expect the son of an oil tycoon to take me to, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t prefer it. We grab a booth near the corner.
“What’s your poison?” he asks, sliding the menu across the table.
“Whatever’s strong enough to make me forget adulting for a few hours,” I reply.
We order pizza and burgers, and then—because Luke is Luke—he drags me into some ridiculous drinking game. We flip cards, do shots, laugh like idiots. My cheeks hurt from smiling. My hair falls into my eyes, sticky from spilled soda, but I don’t care.
At some point, he shoves me toward the mechanical bull in the corner of the bar. “You’re riding it.”
I groan. “I’m way too sober for this kind of humiliation.”
“Too sober—or too sober to admit you’re going to love it?” he grins.
I mount the bull, gripping the reins, trying not to fall off. He climbs behind me, and despite the highly sexual position, all we do is laugh like maniacs as the thing jerks forward.
“You’re ridiculous,” I say between giggles.
When we finally climb down, I’m breathless and flushed. I let my hand brush his without thinking. He notices and smirks, not pulling away.
“That’s… a dangerous move,” he teases.
“Mm,” I murmur, letting it linger a second longer than necessary.
I like this. There’s no Enzo, no work, no judgment. Just this little chaos between us.
“Careful,” he says. “Or I’m going to think you’re asking for trouble.”
I bite my lip. “Maybe I am.”
We stay another hour before calling it a night. He drives me home—we didn’t drink enough to get drunk—but my mind isn’t on the streets or the music. I keep thinking about inviting him up. To feel something. Normal. Fun. Alive.
It’s not like I haven’t slept with anyone since I started working for Enzo. I did—but once Enzo started acting out of character, and it dawned on me that he might be attracted to me, I stopped.
“Thanks for tonight,” I murmur as he parks in front of my building.
He rests a hand lightly on my elbow, just enough to make me shiver. “No, thank you,” he says. “This was… good.”
I glance up at him and, on impulse, press a brief, delicate kiss to his lips. Just a peck. Nothing more. It feels like nothing.
“Bye, Luke,” I whisper, pulling back.
“Bye,” he says with a smile, not offended that I don’t invite him up, not pushing for more than I want to give.
He is perfect. God help me—I’m only ever attracted to the fucked up.
I close the car door gently and head to my floor. I step inside my apartment, flick on the light, and let my eyes adjust. Only to see Enzo sitting on my couch like he owns the place, one elbow resting on his knee, a half-finished glass of my whiskey dangling from his fingers.
My heart drops straight to the floor.
Luke is perfect—easy, normal. The kind of man any sane woman would want. The kind who wouldn’t sneak into her apartment and wait in the dark like a creep.
But I guess I’m not sane, because a sick, stupid part of me is drawn to Enzo—especially when he’s like this.
“Close the door,” he orders.
And even though I shouldn’t—I close the door.