20. Serena #2
I just kept my hand there, warm on his back, letting my thumb move in slow, deliberate circles. The kitchen was quiet, save for the soft bubble of soup on the stove and the static of unspoken things between us.
His hand reached back blindly, found my hip, and rested there like it belonged.
“Can you grab us two bowls?”
Why did I feel dismissed? I removed my hand, putting it back to my side as I went to the cabinet. I moved slowly, reached for the silverware. He still didn’t answer my question.
“I don’t remember you being able to make anything other than instant ramen. And even that was questionable.”
A laugh burst out of him. “That’s because I couldn’t. Ramen and toaster waffles were about the extent of my skills back then.”
“When did you learn? Did the support group teach you like you said before to Mrs. Fontaine?”
“Partially, yeah,” he admitted. “One of the guys in the group was a chef before his wife got sick. He ran these meal-prep sessions to help us out.”
“That’s…thoughtful.” I didn’t think about the day-to-day living going through what he experienced back then. To have to worry about meals on top of your life falling apart?
“Yeah,” Miles said. I hated that he still had that ugly bruise on his face. Then, after a beat, quieter: “He was the one who told me I had to stop feeding my dad frozen lasagna and burritos.”
My chest pinched. “Miles…”
“Shit. That sounded way sadder out loud.”
Doughboy meowed at that, and Miles winked at him.
“No,” I said. “It sounded honest.”
He leaned his hands on the edge of the counter, head down, jaw tight. “I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. Mama was going through a lot—hell, even she wasn’t eating. We couldn’t afford a chef anymore. I also had to keep the business going. Somebody had to do it, you know?”
I nodded. I never thought about the quiet humiliations. Grocery store stares. Empty cabinets. I’d only watched the trial, but never in my head did I allow myself to feel what he could possibly feel. I felt too much regret about him, and I knew I was protected with my family’s name.
Miles didn’t have that protection.
“One day my dad was the one running things, yelling across boardrooms and hosting cigar nights with the guys. Next thing I know he’s got this blank look in his eye and he’s calling me ‘buddy’ because he doesn’t remember my name.”
I stepped closer, and he looked back at the grilled cheese in the pan.
“I used to get mad at him,” he admitted, almost in a whisper. “For forgetting. For slurring his words. For needing me. It wasn’t fair, but I did.”
“That makes you human.”
“It made me an asshole.” His throat worked. “He got diagnosed with diabetes not too long before the car wreck and all the other shit. So I had to learn how to inject insulin, clean wounds, fight with insurance, and bathe a grown man who used to scare me into silence with one look.”
I gripped the counter tighter.
“Your sandwich is ready,” he said abruptly.
He busied himself with pulling it out, and then looked at me. “Can I ask you a question?”
I nodded.
“It hasn’t been easy for you either these last few years, has it? With the company? Your mom?”
No. It wasn’t easy. I’d been so hellbent on proving myself. Trying to compete with Erik and Laurene when I knew I would never have their positions in the family. I knew I couldn’t change how King Enterprises would run.
“I got what I wanted, that’s all that matters.” I crossed my arms, watching as he stirred the tomato soup. “I knew the cost I had to pay.”
Miles paused. “Which was us.”
“I—”
“It’s the truth. You can’t lie about it,” Miles said. “I just can’t help but think maybe we’ve been running parallel lives. Trying to save companies, help family, make sure we don’t fucking go under and never come out.”
“You think about it a lot?” I asked, barely above a whisper.
He didn’t flinch. “Every time something good happens, I’d think about telling you. Every time something goes to shit…I wonder if you’d care. We were more similar than we thought growing up.”
That cracked something in me. Something I didn’t even know was still holding on.
“I wasn’t popular.”
He made a face. “That has nothing to do with it. I meant I enjoyed kicking your ass in every competition.”
“Oh no you didn’t.” I couldn’t help but laugh and shake my head.
We competed over everything. If I finished a book, he’d start two. If I made honor roll, he’d aim for valedictorian—just to get under my skin. Spelling bees, student council elections, debate tournaments, even damn volunteer hours.
Growing up as a King, we weren’t challenged much. He brought that for me. And I loved it back then.
“I’m still better,” I sniffed, tilting my head up.
“Really?” Miles pursed his lips. “I was student of the year throughout high school.”
“You rigged that.” I leaned against the counter, and I realized I was smiling big at him.
“Sometimes I wonder,” he said, “what would’ve happened if we just…stayed. If we didn’t let all of it tear us apart.”
He handed me the steaming bowl of tomato soup, its rich aroma filling the air. Our fingers brushed.
“Open,” he commanded.
I did it without thinking, and he fed me the soup, rich and tangy, bursting with flavor. My throat tightened as I swallowed, and his eyes followed my every move. He fed me again, and I ate slowly.
“You shouldn’t be doing this,” I said at last, the weight of my words heavy in the silent room.
“I know,” Miles said simply, his eyes downcast.
“If you could do anything else, what would it be?” I finally asked, my voice trembling slightly.
With a satisfying crunch, he bit into his sandwich, his eyes drifting away before he broke off a piece and tossed it to Doughboy.
“A chef. I like when people enjoy something I make.”
A small smile came across my face. “It’s really good.”
“What about you?”
I was silent, taking the bowl from him. I fed myself slowly, even dipping the grilled cheese into the soup. I hopped up to sit on the counter, taking in his full glory.
“I don’t know… I never imagined myself doing something else.”
I blinked hard. It was true. I never thought to be anything else than a King. This was my life here.
Don’t cry. Not in front of him.
He took a step toward me, the warmth of the soup bowl forgotten, my knees brushing the front of his shirt.
“You know you can do something else,” he said.
“What would that be?”
He didn’t respond. “The world’s our oyster, right? You have time to figure it out.”
“What are you trying to ask me, Miles?”
He shook his head. But I knew him.
And I remembered.
The late nights we used to sneak down to the kitchen after everyone was asleep.
The arguments that turned into debates, then laughter.
The first time he called me brilliant.
When I looked at him as more than my older brother’s best friend, and as a man who saw me as a woman he wanted. He never wanted to fix me or use me. He just wanted me to want more. And maybe that’s what scared me the most.
That he always believed I could be someone else. Someone free.
His hands didn’t ask permission.
One cupped the back of my neck, fingers sliding into my hair. The other pushed past the open edge of my robe, finding the curve of my breast beneath the silk slip I wore.
He squeezed like he had every right—because he did once.
My gasp hit his mouth just as he kissed me. Hard. Devouring. Like he needed to taste what he’d been deprived of for years. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t careful. It was six years of heartbreak, resentment, and want finally detonating.
I didn’t pull away.
I let it happen. Let him take. Let myself need.
The robe slipped down my shoulders like it understood it didn’t matter anymore. That there was no point in pretending.
I pulled him closer with both hands, fisting the front of his shirt, my mouth opening under his. The kiss deepened—messy, hot, reckless. His hand slid lower, across my thigh, then under, fingers skating up until he found the lace between my legs.
His mouth was still on mine, but his breath stilled.
“You’re wet,” he muttered into my mouth. “Still want me, even now?”
He didn’t wait for an answer.
His fingers pushed the lace aside, teased, pressed. I shuddered, legs tightening around him, my head falling back with a breathless moan.
He kissed down my throat, biting gently at my collarbone. “You miss this?”
God, yes.
I’d spent six years pretending I didn’t.
He slipped a finger inside me. Then another. Slow. Deep. My body clenched around him.
I moaned, low and shaking. I hated him. I wanted him. I needed?—
Then he stopped.
Pulled away.
I made a sound I couldn’t control—half whimper, half protest—and reached for him before I realized what I was doing.
But he was already backing up.
He didn’t look smug. Or proud. Or even satisfied.
He looked…ruined.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said, voice hoarse. “You make me forget this is a bad idea.”
I swallowed hard, my chest heaving.
“Miles—”
“Good night, Serena.” And with that he left, leaving me panting with a half-eaten grilled cheese and stirred-up feelings.