Chapter 2 Not My Business. I make It My Business.
NOT MY BUSINESS. I MAKE IT MY BUSINESS.
CALLAHAN KNIGHT
The woman in the black dress doesn't belong here.
Not in the way the rest of the crowd does.
Not in the way her boyfriend—if the narcissistic, distracted man sitting across from her even qualifies as that—fits into this overpriced steakhouse like he was born in a tailored suit and a boardroom.
No, she's a contradiction to everything around her.
A genuine presence. A rare authenticity that doesn't match the polished, soulless gleam of our setting.
I clock her discomfort the second I see her.
The way her lips press together every time the man across from her says something, like she's biting back the urge to argue. I can’t figure out why I watch her.
Maybe because it's something to do while I wait.
Maybe because I've always had a habit of seeing what lies beneath the surface.
Or maybe because for the first time in a long time, I see a woman I don't want to look away from.
She's beautiful in a way that isn't obvious at first. Not the sort of beauty that knocks you sideways the second you see her, but the kind that unfolds the longer you look—the kind that sinks under your skin and takes root.
Thick, dark hair, slightly messy, like she ran her fingers through it too many times on the way here. Big, brown eyes, expressive even as she tries to keep them guarded. A full pout, and even though her lips are pursed tight, something tells me when she smiles, it transforms her entire face.
She's curvy, soft in all the right places, but I can tell she doesn't think so. Can tell by the way she pulls at the fabric of her dress where it hugs her hips. She shrinks herself without realizing it. But she shouldn't. Because from where I'm sitting? She's impossible to ignore.
I take a slow sip of my whiskey, letting the burn roll over my tongue as she lifts her glass, tilting it toward her mouth just enough to catch the red of her lipstick against the rim.
The ice clinks softly against the crystal.
She hesitates before drinking, just for a second.
Like she's somewhere else in her head. Somewhere far from here.
It's not my business. I have no reason to care about whatever the hell is happening at her table.
But when the guy across from her shows her something on his phone and I see her recoil, the way her shoulders go tight, the way she grips her napkin like she's fighting the urge to throw it, a cold anger settles deep in my gut.
I know that look.
I've seen it before.
Not in a restaurant like this with its polished wood and low lighting, but in places where people aren't supposed to show emotion.
Places where you're trained to keep your face blank no matter how bad it gets.
I recognize what she's doing, what's happening behind her eyes.
She's swallowing it down. Taking the hit.
I wonder how many she's taken before this one.
She stands when he does, moving a little slower, like she's bracing herself for whatever comes next. He doesn't wait for her, his attention shifting the second the check is paid. She follows him toward the elevator, her arms folded across her stomach, like she’s trying to hide.
I watch as they step inside, the sleek metal doors sliding shut behind them. He's still scrolling, barely acknowledging her. She glances up at him once, her lips parting like she might say something—then she doesn't.
Instead, she looks back.
And just before the doors close, her eyes meet mine through the narrowing gap.
She hesitates.
Then she's gone.
I exhale slowly, flexing my fingers against the cool weight of my glass. The ice shifts, melting against the heat of my palm.
Time passes after the elevator doors close until the reason I’m here finally appears.
I shift my attention as a man in his mid-fifties approaches the bar.
He's in a navy suit, the kind that costs as much as my last security setup, his hair perfectly combed back in that executive but approachable way corporate guys love.
Expensive cologne announces his arrival before he does.
"Callahan."
I stand, shaking his hand. "Mr. Reyes."
"Call me Tom," he says, settling into the seat across from me. "Glad we could get you out before you officially start tomorrow. Welcome aboard."
I nod, waiting as he waves down the bartender, orders himself a scotch, and leans back with the comfortable ease of someone who thinks he's the most important person in the room.
"Hell of a time for you to join us," he says, shaking his head.
"Thefts are up, staff is stretched thin, and corporate expects miracles on a budget. Hope you like a challenge."
"I don't mind a challenge."
His mouth tips in approval. "That's what we're hoping for. The last guy couldn't handle it. The store's too high-profile—too many VIP clients, too many people looking for a quick payout. These aren't teenagers stealing lip gloss. It's organized, and we need someone who knows how to handle that."
I've dealt with worse. I don't say that, but it's the truth.
He takes a sip of his drink before gesturing toward the dining area. "Crossed paths with your new store manager on my way up. Isabella Russo. She's young, but smart. Corporate's got high hopes for her."
Isabella.
I roll the name over in my head, testing it against what I already know about her, which isn't much. Just that she doesn't like the food here. That she picked at her napkin all night. That she spent her whole dinner barely speaking while the guy she was with ignored her.
I down the rest of my whiskey, the liquor burning a warm path down my throat. "I'll meet her tomorrow."
Tom nods. "Good. You two will be working closely. Just make sure she doesn't make your job harder—these store managers can get a little... particular."
I don't answer, because I already know how this goes. Guys like Tom always think they know everything about a situation. They don't.
I sit through the rest of dinner, listening to his rundown of the job, the security concerns, the real reason they wanted to bring in someone with my background. I tell him what he wants to hear, shake his hand when we part ways, and head home.
My apartment is nothing special. One-bedroom, nothing on the walls, a place to sleep and nothing more. I never saw the point of making a place feel like home when I don't even know if I'll still be here in a year.
It's a habit I never managed to break after getting out.
The military has a way of drilling the impermanence of things into you—constant movement, temporary deployments, never staying in one place long enough to let it settle under your skin.
I spent almost a decade living out of duffel bags, sleeping in barracks, tents, and sometimes, wherever the hell I could find cover.
You learn to live without attachments.
Or at least, you tell yourself that.
I toe off my boots, drop my keys onto the counter with a metallic clatter, and sit in front of my laptop. The distant sounds of city traffic filter through my windows, a constant urban lullaby I've learned to tune out.
I tell myself I'm just getting a head start. That it's normal to research the people I'm going to be working with. It's smart.
But as I type her name into the search bar, I already know that's bullshit.
Her LinkedIn pops up first—typical corporate headshot, a clean, professional summary. Store manager at an upscale department store, promoted quickly, strong track record.
Her Instagram is next. It's mostly safe, mostly work-related.
Fashion, product launches, staff events.
But the further back I scroll, the more personal it gets.
A photo of her at a rooftop bar, laughing, her head tilted back.
A post from three years ago of her and her family—three brothers, parents who look straight out of an old Italian movie.
I don't know what that kind of family feels like.
The only person left in mine is my dad, and even that feels like more of a technicality these days.
He's back in Pennsylvania, still in the same house I grew up in. We talk, but not as often as we should. I haven't seen him in almost a year. Meant to visit a few months back, but I kept putting it off. Told myself work got in the way, but the truth is, I'm not great at showing up. Never have been.
I should call him.
The thought lingers in the back of my mind as I keep scrolling.
Eventually, I find what I'm really looking for.
Evan.
I don't have to dig hard. He's one of those guys who makes himself easy to find—public profile, polished photos, all surface-level confidence.
He appears to work in finance, the kind of man you'd expect to see at that restaurant, all clean lines and expensive habits.
Every picture is the same—him in expensive suits, gym selfies that show off his gains, expensive dinners where he's tagged the restaurant like it's part of his personal brand.
I skim the captions, the comments. The ones where his friends hype him up, where women leave the sort of emojis that tell me everything I need to know about him.
Then I go back to her profile.
I scroll through the last year of posts. No pictures of Evan. No tagged dinners, no anniversary shoutouts. If I hadn't just watched them leave together, I'd assume she was single.
That tells me a story.
So does the fact that I'm sitting here, doing this at all.
I close my laptop, scrub a hand over my jaw, feeling the rough stubble there, and sit back in my chair, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the muted sounds of my neighbor's television through the wall.
This isn't like me. I don't get caught up in complications like this.
I don't care about people's personal lives, about what they do when they leave work, about the way a woman I don't even know looked at a man like she was waiting for him to see her and already knew he wouldn't.
At least, I tell myself I don't.
It's a lie, though, isn't it? Because I know exactly what that look feels like.
I saw it in the mirror once.
I wasn't supposed to care back then, either.
It wasn't the job of a soldier to carry anything other than what was necessary, and that included emotions.
You pack light. You don't make promises you can't keep, don't let yourself get too comfortable, don't expect anything to be waiting for you when you get home.
I broke that rule.
I was deployed when I got the email. It was short, clinical. No explanations, no real apology. Just a fact. She'd moved on. She was getting married.
And the real kicker? By the time my boots hit U.S. soil again, she wasn't just married. She was pregnant.
With triplets.
Which meant they weren't just an item after we broke up. They were together while she was still telling me she loved me. While we were engaged.
I should have seen it coming. She used to get frustrated with how often I was gone, how little I could give her beyond phone calls and letters.
She wanted stability, someone who could be there for her in a way I couldn't be.
I used to tell myself that was fair. That I couldn't blame her for choosing someone else.
But that didn't stop the betrayal from sitting in my chest like a bullet that never got removed.
After that, I learned my lesson.
You don't put faith in something that can be taken away from you while you're halfway across the world. You don't put faith in people.
That's why this—this fixation brewing in my head over a woman I haven't even met—isn't right.
I don't know Isabella Russo.
She has nothing to do with me.
So why the hell can't I stop thinking about her?
I exhale sharply, rubbing a hand down my face. I need sleep. I need to call my dad. I need to stop thinking about a woman who isn't mine to think about.
But instead, I sit in the quiet of my apartment, the ticking of the clock on my wall marking time, wondering if she's staring at the ceiling the way I am.
Wondering if, right now, she's lying awake thinking about me the same way I'm thinking about her.