20. Lauren
Lauren
“ D id you like my gift?” Emma asks, her voice full of mischief. I can hear the wind in the background, probably from her taking a stroll along the beach.
“You’re crazy !” I exclaim, the memory of everyone's reaction still vivid. “I had to deny them an explanation when they saw it! And Silas didn’t take it well when he saw his number, either.”
Emma bursts into laughter. “It was spot on ! Besides, you don’t have to explain anything to them, Lauren!”
“Easy for you to say. He’s not your boss,” I grumble, refocusing on organizing my closet. With Silas’s ridiculous schedule, I barely have time to keep my life in order. This closet needs a system, or I can’t function.
“Wait a minute,” I say, stopping mid-fold with a pair of pants. “Why did you meet up with Luca?”
“Oh, no …”
“Yes, explain yourself.”
Luca and Emma had dated for a while in high school. I’d found out they broke up only when I went home over the holidays, in my freshman year in college.
“Property Group Miami is looking for a marketing company. We’re competing with another firm for the account.”
That makes sense. I wouldn’t necessarily know; each office operates independently. Even though Silas oversees everything, his brothers are free to manage their territories, as he likes to call them.
Men and their strange need for dominance.
“Do I need to remind you how badly you got hurt from that relationship, Emma?” My maternal tone slips out before I can stop it.
I can’t forget how Luca dimmed all the light my sister had back then. Emma was always artistic, vibrant, and full of joy—until Luca came into her life and slowly consumed her, the way Silas once did with me.
“I know, don’t worry. I have everything under control.”
She’s lying. I can hear it in her voice. But Emma’s a free spirit, and if I push, she’ll just push back harder.
“Besides, Lauren, you work for Silas. You spent Christmas with him. Come on …”
Okay, maybe I’m being a little hypocritical. Just a bit. And that’s not even counting the fact that Silas and I exchanged … other things.
“Yes, but—” I’m cut off by a sound—a call coming in. I glance at my screen. “Speak of the devil. Silas is calling,” I say.
“Oh, so Silas is the devil? In what particular area of his body is he, exactly?” Emma’s laugh is so loud I have to pull the phone away from my ear .
I roll my eyes but can’t help biting my lip, remembering his, well, his baseball bat.
“Goodbye, sis.” I hang up quickly and answer Silas’s call, already bracing for whatever comes next.
“Silas,” I answer while rushing to grab my notebook, just in case I missed something in the last two hours. It’s been three days since I last saw him, and while we're technically on a “break,” Silas is working like a man possessed. We’ve been exchanging rapid-fire emails and short, no-nonsense calls.
“Are you going to the New Year’s Eve party?” His voice is anxious, stressed.
“Uhh ...” The answer is no, even though I helped organize the damn thing with the other departments.
“You can’t miss it,” he says, in that CEO-commanding tone. “You’re the CEO’s assistant. You have to be there.”
There’s a pause. I’m trying to think of an excuse when he softens his tone, more understanding now.
“At least stay until the toast. After that, things get ... heavier. I can take you home when you’re ready to leave. Your house, not mine. I didn’t mean mine.”
I stifle a laugh. Is Silas Walker nervous? For some reason, that makes me smile.
He sighs, sounding frustrated or maybe just annoyed with himself.
“What’s wrong, Silas?” I ask, settling onto the bed, preparing for some serious conversation.
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
Another sigh. “I’ve got a lot of work, and working from home feels like hell.” His voice shifts, sounding like a kid who lost his favorite toy.
“Do you need me for something?” I know it’s my break, but that hasn’t stopped him from reaching out at least a thousand times over the past few days. Always with some excuse:
Did you send that email ?
I need Mr. Lee’s number.
I can’t find the email. Where is it?
“Yes,” he says simply, offering no details. “What are you doing right now?”
I glance at the neatly folded clothes spread across my bed. I won’t tell him what I am doing—not because it’s a big secret, but ... Okay, maybe it’s a little embarrassing.
“You are doing something Lauren style , aren’t you?” There’s a grin in his voice. I can hear it.
“Define Lauren style,” I challenge.
“Meticulous. Obsessive. Organized. And visually perfect.”
I burst out laughing so hard I hold my stomach. “Maybe.”
“Knew it. Are you done?”
I like that Silas doesn’t pry or judge how I spend my time. He just rolls with it. “I’ve got a few more things left to do.”
“How long do you need?”
“Forty-five minutes, maybe?”
“Alright. I’ll pick you up in forty-five.”
“Wait—where are we going?”
I'm standing on the street, waiting for Silas. For a number of reasons—none of them easy to swallow—I'm a bundle of nerves. First, I have no idea where we're going, and that always makes me anxious. Second, I’m about to see Silas after that weekend together, where things surfaced that I wasn’t quite ready to interpret. And third ... well, Silas. Did I mention him? Ah, who knows why he’s even coming. Is it work? Something personal? Does his chest hurt again?
“Why are you all tangled up?” I hear his deep voice shout from the car. The window’s rolled down, and he's leaning across the passenger seat, waving at me like a fool .
I slip into the car, and when our eyes meet, he’s got that look. He’s wearing a black NYC cap, a matching hoodie, and sweatpants—total incognito mode. Meanwhile, I’m just in jeans and a jacket, like we’re gearing up for two completely different days.
“I wasn’t tangled up, I was just ...”
He raises an eyebrow, challenging me to keep lying.
“Okay, fine, I was tangled up,” I admit, making air quotes. “Where are we going?”
“You tell me,” he says, starting the car and diving into the chaos of Manhattan’s traffic.
Taxis swarm around us, cyclists zigzag between cars, and the skyscrapers loom so high it feels like they might swallow us whole. “Hmm, depends on your mood.”
“I’m in a good mood right now,” he says casually.
“And before? You weren’t?”
“Nope,” he replies without hesitation. “Do you want to get some hot chocolate? It’s freezing out.”
My eyes light up at the suggestion.
Silas catches my expression and flashes a grin. “I know the perfect spot for it. Want to check the menu before we get there?” he asks.
How does he know I need to do that first?
“I know spontaneity’s your worst enemy, Bunny. Or at least it used to be. What changed?”
Damn it. Did I say that out loud again? “Well,” I start, trying to recover, “once I got diagnosed, it became easier to face certain situations. Therapy’s helped me a lot over the years.”
He glances over. “When were you diagnosed?”
“When I was twenty-one.”
“Wow, you were already an adult.”
“Yeah.” I shift in my seat, staring out the window. “Women tend to get diagnosed later. Apparently, we’re good at pretending to fit in.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” he says, flicking on the blinker and merging onto the avenue. “You all have to pretend all the time to avoid uncomfortable situations. ”
I nod, surprised. I didn’t expect him to understand, let alone be so empathetic about it. Silas Walker, more in tune than I thought.
When we arrive, I realize we’re at a New York gem— La Vie En Rose , the famous Parisian café just a few blocks from Silas’s apartment on Fifth Avenue. The place is perched on a stunning terrace, with windows offering views in every direction. It’s cozy, the kind of place that instantly makes you feel at home, with soft jazz—or something equally melodic—playing in the background.
The decor is quintessentially French, of course. Vines trail down from the corners and weave above our heads, giving the place a whimsical feel. Silas leads me to the most secluded table, tucked away with an incredible view. It’s so picturesque I feel compelled to take a photo, and once I start, I can’t stop. The last time I took pictures with this much enthusiasm was during autumn in Central Park—those vibrant reds, yellows, and oranges turn the park into a living postcard.
“I can see you like the place,” Silas says with a trace of pride in his voice.
“Yeah, I’ve read about this café online, but never had the chance to visit.” I smile even wider when the waitress sets down a hot chocolate and a pain au chocolat in front of me. I snap a quick photo. Silas orders the same drink, but instead of a pastry, he opts for something delicate and shiny, alongside a croissant dusted with powdered sugar and almond flakes.
He stirs stevia into his coffee. “What was your favorite song when you were a teenager?”
“‘With You’ by Linkin Park,” I say without hesitation. I must have played that song at least four hundred times.
Silas nods, taking a sip of his coffee.
“And yours?” I ask, curious.
“‘Eat You Alive’ by Limp Bizkit,” he replies, a grin tugging at his lips.
I can’t hide the look of distaste on my face, which makes him laugh.
“What?” he asks, amused.
“That song is a bit… ”
“Obsessive? Creepy?” He grins wider. “Yeah, I know. But it spoke to me. That’s all I needed back then.” His eyes lock onto mine, and the intensity of his gaze makes me shrink slightly, feeling exposed under his attention.
I know that song—it’s about a man consumed with obsession over a woman who doesn’t even acknowledge him. The thought stirs something unsettling inside me, but I shake it off, focusing back on my hot chocolate.
“Favorite quote?” Silas continues, keeping the conversation going.
“I thought I was the one asking the questions here,” I tease back.
“Don’t you like my questions, Miss Green?” He leans his arm casually on the chair beside him, a playful glint in his eyes. He’s clearly more at ease now, settling into this back-and-forth.
I cross my arms and lean back in my chair, watching as his gaze drifts— shamelessly —over my chest. Surprisingly, I don’t mind. In fact, I might actually like this kind of attention. Not like the attention I got in school, the kind that made me feel small.
“I didn’t have a favorite quote, but my mom painted a John Lennon one on my bedroom wall: ‘It’s weird not to be weird.’” I rest my elbows on the table, wrapping my hands around the warm cup. “I think she wanted me to feel comfortable in my own skin.”
“And did it work?” he asks, his tone genuinely curious.
I shrug. “Mmm … therapy helped more, to be honest.”
Silas laughs, the sound warm and unexpected, his bright blue eyes crinkling at the corners. It catches me off guard—funny, I don’t remember seeing him laugh like this in school. Back then, if he laughed, it was usually at someone else’s expense.
This Silas is different, and I’m still trying to figure out if that’s a good thing. “Favorite movie?” I counter.
He takes a few seconds as if the answer is life or death. “ 300 . Best movie I've ever seen,” he says, oozing confidence. “Yours?”
“Avatar,” I reply.
He snorts, grinning like he’s just uncovered a secret. “Of course, Bunny would be a fan of that movie. ”
Without hesitation, I grab a paper napkin, crumple it up, and toss it right between his eyes. Bullseye.
“Hey! What was that?” He laughs even harder, clearly finding my reaction way too entertaining. He reaches for the napkin roll, ready to retaliate, but I snatch it from his hands before he can even try. No way am I letting him waste a napkin.
“Karma,” I say smugly.
“But what did I?—”
Before he can finish, I silence him by shoving half of his croissant into his mouth. I really need to tell my therapist how satisfying this feels. Silas chuckles, still trying to chew, and powdered sugar ends up all over my face.
“Silas!” I exclaim, my mouth forming a perfect “O” as I wipe at the sugar.
Still laughing, he takes another bite and leaves the rest on the plate while I attempt to brush the white dust off my cheeks. “Come here,” he says, leaning forward and reaching across the table. His fingers gently brush the sugar off my nose. “Damn, you're cute,” he whispers, eyes narrowing with a mischievous glint. “Wait, there’s still some left right here.”
Before I can react, he grabs my chin, pulling me closer. His tongue flicks across my lower lip, then the upper, with deliberate, slow sensuality.
My entire body flushes with heat, and his blue eyes lock onto mine—hunger, lust, and something far more dangerous simmering just beneath the surface.
“Better?” he asks, his voice low.
I nod, speechless.
He leans back in his chair, giving me a half-smile that tells me he knows exactly what he just did. My head is still spinning, my heart racing, and I can’t seem to shake off the dizzying effect of that one simple, devastatingly sensual act.
“What are your guilty pleasures?” Silas asks, hiding behind his coffee cup, eyes twinkling with curiosity.
Good question. I scan the room, noticing the soft murmur of conversations around us, the warmth of the café settling into my bones. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this relaxed in a public place before.
“Come on,” he presses. “You can’t be Mother Teresa. There’s got to be something bad you secretly enjoy.”
I groan, covering my face with both hands. “Okay, fine. My favorite fast-food place uses non-recyclable containers, but I still buy from there. It’s terrible.”
Silas laughs, gently pulling my hands away from my face. “That’s not so bad. You wouldn’t be human if you did everything perfectly.”
“Oh, Silas, it’s so bad. Those containers are pure trash, but the food is so good. I swear, I’m taking you there one day. You have to experience it.”
He grins, and it’s the kind of smile that lights up his entire face—his eyes, his mouth, even his eyebrows seem to join in. He looks genuinely happy, and that throws me off. Are we on a date?
“Do you promise?” he says, extending his hand for a handshake.
I take his hand and give him the most vigorous handshake I can manage. He pulls back, feigning injury, shaking out his fingers dramatically. I laugh, a warmth spreading through me. Whatever this is, I’m enjoying it more than I expected.
“Do you regret anything in this life?” I ask, quickly stuffing a piece of pain au chocolat into my mouth to mask the anxiety bubbling up inside me.
Silas’s expression hardens, the warmth that was in his eyes moments ago disappearing. His gaze shifts into something deeper, heavier. “Yes,” he says quietly. “I regret not being honest about my feelings when I was younger and making you pay for it.”
I drop my eyes to my hands, twisting my fingers under the table. The sudden intensity of the conversation makes it impossible to meet his gaze.
“I deeply regret torturing you like that,” he continues. “Believe me when I say there’s not a day that goes by where I don’t wish I could go back in time and—” he pauses, voice dropping to a near-whisper— “shoot myself in the head for treating you so terribly.”
My head snaps up, shocked by the starkness of his words. Anyone else would’ve said they wished they could go back to make things right, but Silas Walker ? He’d rather end himself than change the past. “Silas, don’t say that,” I whisper, reaching across the table, instinctively taking his hands in mine.
“Because of me, you ended up in the hospital twice, ” he says, shaking his head, frustration etched into every line of his face.
“You weren’t responsible,” I say, my voice firmer now. “We all make our own choices. Matt made his.”
“Lauren,” he sighs, “don’t defend me. I don’t deserve it. I was always an idiot.”
“But not now,” I counter, trying to find a way to pull him out of this.
His gaze meets mine, the weight of his regret pressing down on us both. “Especially now,” he says firmly.
I can’t bear to stay on this path, so I force a change of subject, trying to lighten the mood. “Tell me something nice you remember about me,” I say, offering a small smile. “Show me who you really were when you looked at me.”
He snorts as if the question is laughably easy. “I remember your smile,” he begins softly, his eyes lingering on our entwined hands, his thumb gently brushing over mine. “That quiet, beautiful smile you'd give when someone praised you like you weren’t sure you deserved it. It lit up your face for just a moment before you hid it like you were afraid to show the world how radiant you really were.”
His voice lowers, filled with warmth. “I remember how focused you’d get at the café—how you'd prepare your reading time like it was a secret ritual. And those big headphones you always wore in school, making you look so serious, more mature than you were. You have no idea how many times I stared at you, wondering what you were thinking about, how you managed to drown out the world so easily.”
He leans in a little, his gaze locking with mine. “I remember your voice—how it could calm a room. And the perfume you made in chemistry class.” He smiles. “God, the way it smelled. Sweet and warm, like you. I carried that scent with me for weeks. I stole one of your samples,” he adds with a smile .
His eyes trace my face, almost reverently. “And the way you walked, Lauren,” he continues, his voice barely a whisper now. “You never noticed, but I did—how your hips swayed down the halls of Willow High like you owned the space without even trying. Every step you took had me captivated.”
His eyes are full of something deeper now, a raw intensity. “I remember everything about you, Lauren. Every little detail. How could I forget?”