Chapter 8
Isla
Iwoke to unfamiliar sheets and the disorienting realization that I wasn't in my own bed.
Sunlight filtered through floor-to-ceiling windows, bright despite the gray October sky outside.
Manhattan stretched out below—Central Park's trees ablaze with autumn colors, the reservoir glinting in the distance.
I inhaled the faint scent of expensive cologne on the pillow beside me.
For one disorienting moment, I thought I was still in that Miami hotel room—before reality crashed in.
Cassian's penthouse. His bed. His sheets tangled around my naked body.
Again.
The digital clock on his nightstand read 6:17 a.m. No sign of him in the room, though I could hear water running somewhere in the apartment.
I sat up, pressing my palms against my eyes as memories from last night flooded back—his hands on my skin, his mouth against mine, the way he'd whispered things that made me forget every reason this was a terrible idea.
I'd done it again. Fallen into bed with a man who didn't even know my real name the first time around.
Except now he did. Now he was my boss. Now there was Leo.
Leo.
Panic shot through me. I'd told Maya I might be late, but I hadn't planned on spending the night. I grabbed my phone from the nightstand—three texts from Maya assuring me Leo was fine, had gone to sleep easily, and that I should "enjoy myself for once."
If only she knew.
I slipped from the bed, gathering my scattered clothing with practiced efficiency. The burgundy silk dress felt like a costume now, rumpled and out of place in the harsh morning light. I stepped into it quickly, not bothering with the zipper. My underwear was nowhere to be found.
The water shut off. I froze, listening for footsteps.
This was exactly how it had happened before. Waking alone, gathering my things, the crushing weight of shame and regret pressing down on me.
Moving silently through the apartment, I located my clutch and shoes near the front door. The penthouse was minimalist, expensive, and impersonal—no photographs, no mementos, nothing that revealed the man behind the wealth. Just like the hotel suite in Miami.
My hand was on the doorknob when I heard his voice.
"Leaving without saying goodbye?"
I turned slowly. Cassian stood in the hallway, a towel slung low around his hips, water droplets still clinging to his chest. The scar above his lip seemed more pronounced in the morning light.
"I have to go," I said, hating how small my voice sounded.
His eyes narrowed slightly. "You're running."
"I'm being practical. This was a mistake."
"Was it?" He took a step toward me. "Because it didn't feel like a mistake when you were saying my name last night."
Heat flooded my cheeks. "We work together. This complicates things."
"I don't mix business with pleasure as a rule," he said, closing the distance between us. "But rules can be broken for the right reasons."
I pressed myself against the door, trying to ignore how my body responded to his proximity. "And what reason would that be?"
"Because there's something between us that doesn't make sense." His hand came up to my face, thumb brushing my cheek. "Something familiar."
My heart pounded against my ribs. Did he remember? Had something triggered his memory?
"I need to go," I repeated, more firmly this time.
He studied me for a long moment, then stepped back. "I'll have a car brought around."
"No need. I'll take a cab."
A flash of irritation crossed his face. "It's not a request, Isla."
The way he said my name—commanding, possessive—sent a shiver down my spine. I'd heard that tone before, in a hotel room with the Miami skyline spread out below us.
"Fine."
He disappeared into a room off the hallway, returning moments later with something small and metallic. "A key," he said, pressing it into my palm. "To the penthouse."
I stared at the key, its weight feeling significant. "Cassian, I can't—"
"In case you need anything." His thumb brushed over my knuckles. "Or in case you decide to stop running."
I closed my fingers around it, the metal warming in my palm. This was more than a key. This was an invitation. A claim.
"I should go," I whispered.
"You should," he agreed. "But keep the key."
Our fingers touched, and for a second, I thought he might pull me back into his arms. Instead, he stepped away, maintaining that careful distance.
"The car will be waiting downstairs."
It was a dismissal. I nodded once and slipped out the door.
In the elevator, I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes, trying to slow my racing heart. What had I done? Everything I'd worked for—the careful distance, the professional boundaries—destroyed in one moment of weakness.
I made it outside, and I pulled my coat tighter around myself—more from nerves than the October chill.
The sleek black car waited as promised. The driver didn't speak as we pulled away from Cassian's building, which I was grateful for.
I watched the city pass by through tinted windows, the October morning already busy with weekend joggers and dog walkers.
I was retracing the path we'd taken last night—except this time, alone.
Just like before.
Three years ago, I'd left that hotel room with my heart in pieces, convinced I'd made a connection with someone who felt the same spark I did. But I'd woken up to sunlight streaming through the curtains and empty sheets beside me. Antonio was already gone. No note. No number. No goodbye.
We'd used fake names—never exchanged real contact information. It was supposed to be one perfect night with no complications.
Then I discovered I was pregnant a month later, and "no complications" became laughable.
I'd tried everything to find "Antonio"—searched hotel records, bribed staff, even hired a private investigator.
Then, a lucky break. I discovered the list of conference attendees and looked up each one until I saw Antonio.
Cassian Barone. That changed everything.
By the time I made it back to my apartment, the autumn sun had broken through the morning clouds, painting Prospect Park in shades of gold and crimson. Late October in Brooklyn—my favorite time of year, though this year it felt heavy with secrets and complications.
The car stopped in front of my apartment building. I thanked the driver and hurried inside, taking the stairs rather than waiting for the ancient elevator. My feet ached in last night's heels, and I was painfully aware of how I must look—the walk of shame personified.
I knocked softly on Maya's door. She opened it almost immediately, still in her pajamas, coffee mug in hand.
"Well, well," she said, eyebrows raised. "Someone had a late night."
"Maya, please—"
"Relax, he's still sleeping." She stepped aside to let me in. "Coffee?"
"No time. I need to get him home."
Maya studied me over the rim of her mug. "You okay? You look—rattled."
I managed a tight smile. "Just tired. Thank you for watching him."
"Anytime." She hesitated. "Was it… him? Your boss?"
I nodded, unable to meet her eyes.
"Isla," she said gently, "you know you're going to have to tell him eventually."
"Not now, Maya. Please."
She sighed but didn't push. "Leo's in the guest room. He was an angel, as always."
I followed her down the short hallway to where my son slept, curled up in the center of Maya's pull-out couch, his dark hair tousled against the pillow. My heart constricted at the sight of him.
"Hey, baby," I whispered, brushing his hair back from his forehead.
His eyes fluttered open, confusion clearing when he saw me. "Mama!" He scrambled up, tiny arms outstretched.
I scooped him up, breathing in his sweet baby smell, so different from the cologne that still clung to my skin. He giggled as I peppered his face with kisses, small hands patting my cheeks.
"Did you have fun with Auntie Maya?" I asked, settling him on my hip.
He nodded enthusiastically. "We had 'ghetti! And ice cream!"
I raised an eyebrow at Maya, who shrugged unapologetically. "What's the point of being an honorary aunt if I can't spoil him?"
Twenty minutes later, we were back in our apartment. I changed out of my dress into worn pajamas, washed my face, and tried not to think about whose hands had been on my body just hours before.
Leo followed me around the apartment, chattering about his night with Maya, his stuffed dinosaur dragging behind him. I listened with half an ear, making appropriate sounds of interest while my mind raced through scenarios and consequences.
What if Cassian recognized me? What if he already had? What if he connected the dots between our night in Miami and Leo's age?
What would he do?
"Mama, bath time?" Leo tugged at my pajama pants, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts.
I forced a smile. "Sure, buddy. Let's get you cleaned up."
I ran the water, testing the temperature with my wrist before helping Leo out of his pajamas. He splashed happily as I washed his hair, playing with the plastic boats that bobbed in the soapy water.
"Careful, Leo," I cautioned as water sloshed over the edge of the tub.
He looked up at me, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief, and my breath caught. Those eyes. Cassian's eyes.
It wasn't just the eyes. The more Leo grew, the more I saw Cassian in him—the shape of his jaw, the determined set of his mouth when he concentrated, even the way he scrunched his nose when he laughed.
Thank God he hadn't asked to see my phone last night. One look at my lock screen—Leo's face smiling up from the photo—and everything would have unraveled. How much longer before luck ran out?
But then, why would he look? Why would he even think to connect a one-night stand from three years ago with the child of his new executive assistant?
"All done, Mama," Leo announced, standing up in the tub, water streaming down his little body.
I wrapped him in a fluffy towel, dried him off, and then helped him into clean pajamas. "Story time?"
He nodded eagerly, running to his room to select a book. I followed more slowly, my body aching from the night before, my mind still trapped in a loop of what-ifs.
Leo chose his favorite—a worn copy of "Goodnight Moon" that we'd read hundreds of times. I settled into the rocking chair in the corner of his room, and he climbed into my lap, his damp head resting against my chest.
"Goodnight room, goodnight moon," I began, the familiar words flowing automatically.
As I rocked and read, Leo's eyelids grew heavy. By the time I reached the end, he was nearly asleep, his breathing deep and even.
"You look so much like him," I whispered, tracing the curve of his cheek with my finger. "Same jaw. Same eyes."
Leo didn't stir, lost in the peaceful sleep of childhood.
"What happens if he sees you?" The question hung in the air, unanswered.
I continued rocking, holding my son close, trying to imagine what Cassian would do if—when—he discovered the truth. Would he be angry? Would he want to be part of Leo's life? Or would he see Leo as an inconvenience, a complication to be managed with money and distance?
The Cassian I'd glimpsed in Miami—the man who'd held me like I mattered, who'd whispered things that made me believe he felt what I felt—that man might have welcomed a son.
But the Cassian Barone I'd come to know these past weeks? The ruthless CEO who commanded rooms with a glance, who destroyed competitors without remorse, who kept everyone at arm's length?
I couldn't risk Leo's heart on a man like that.
And yet, I'd risked my own. Again.
I carefully transferred Leo to his bed, tucking the dinosaur beside him. He stirred slightly but didn't wake.
"I'll protect you," I promised, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "No matter what."
Back in my own room, I pulled out my phone and stared at Cassian's business card. The embossed letters caught the light, his private number written on the back in precise handwriting.
I should tear it up. Delete his contact information. Request a transfer to another department—or better yet, find a new job entirely.
Instead, I saved the number and set the card on my nightstand.
Because deep down, beneath the fear and the regret and the self-recrimination, I knew the truth: I wasn't strong enough to walk away from Cassian Barone a second time.
Not even to protect my son.
Not even to protect myself.