Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Robert
The restaurant is new.
It’s been open for one week, and is already moving with the expectation it was built for.
I take in the poolside again, the sound of water spilling over the stone edge of the cascading wall, blending into everything else that’s running exactly as it should.
The pool below mirrors the sky in broken fragments, disturbed only by the occasional ripple from the submerged jets. Light bends across the surface, shifting with every movement, every disturbance, but never losing its form.
Everything about this space is intentional. Built to impress without asking for it.
“This looks better than expected.” I throw over my shoulder at Atelia.
“I told you I could handle it.” Atelia leans slightly into me, her voice low enough to stay between us, her lips curving in amusement.
I trace the direction of her gaze to Sullivan, a high-profile client in a navy suit. He’s standing at the edge of the pool, his security detail fanning out just enough to look casual while still marking territory.
He’s just come off inspecting one of the adjoining properties, his gaze still scanning like he’s cataloging value in real time.
Late sixties, maybe early seventies, his body still holding onto a disciplined strength that hasn’t melted with age. His hair is silver, cut close.
His face carries lines that weren’t earned gently, creases around his mouth that suggest he doesn’t smile often, deeper ones at his brow from years of scrutiny and decision-making.
“I’m talking about the pool, Atelia.”
“I know,” she murmurs, “Although, this is a much calmer reception than the last time one of your high-profile guests visited.”
“I assume you’re referring to the incident at the club.” I don’t look at her.
“I’m referring,” she teases lightly, “To the party that nearly made its way into the press because someone thought discretion was optional.”
“That was handled.”
“Oh, I know,” she shrugs, straightening just as Sullivan turns toward us. “But it was… memorable.”
Of course it was.
Chaos always is.
“Sullivan.” I step forward before she can add anything else.
“Robert.” He extends his hand, giving the kind of handshake that’s more about confirmation than introduction.
“Sullivan.” Atelia steps forward, extending her hand with that same effortless poise she carries into every room.
“The pretty Atelia,” he greets, a smile pulling at his mouth as he takes her hand, lifting it just enough to press a soft kiss to the back of it.
“She bites,” I add as I step in, my voice cutting into the moment.
“I have no doubt.” He pulls back, amusement still lingering at the edge of his mouth.
His attention shifts, his gaze sweeping over the space again, slower this time, like he’s recalibrating what he’s seen against what he expected.
“What you’ve built here is impressive,” he offers, his gaze lingering at the pool, then to the staff positioned just out of reach but fully aware.
“It’s designed to be,” I reply, gesturing toward the entrance behind me. “But this is only a fraction of what we offer.”
His interest piques.
Sullivan is here to secure the space for an elite leadership conference he hosts annually, the kind that gathers high-level executives, investors, and decision-makers who expect privacy and influence under one roof.
Atelia steps in seamlessly.
“If you’ll follow us,” she adds, her tone easy, “We’ll walk you through the conference spaces. I think you’ll find they align very closely with what you described.”
We move.
Inside, the temperature shifts slightly, growing cooler, and the lighting adjusts as we step into the main corridor.
The conference hall opens up ahead, a space that can be molded into whatever the client needs without losing its foundation.
“What’s your maximum capacity here?” He asks, already calculating.
“Three hundred seated comfortably,” I answer. “Four hundred if you’re willing to compromise on spacing. I don’t recommend it.”
He nods, appreciating the restraint more than the number.
“The acoustics?”
“Engineered to carry without echo. You won’t lose clarity, even at full capacity.”
He steps further in, his attention narrowing, testing the space with his presence alone.
“We’ve also designed the layout to support layered experiences.” Atelia fills the silence where needed. “Main sessions here, with breakout rooms just adjacent. No congestion, no overlap. Movement feels natural.”
He glances at her, interested.
She holds it just long enough, then steps back, letting me take over again.
We move through the adjoining rooms next.
He lingers in one, runs a hand over the table, looks at the seating, imagining.
We don’t interrupt, letting him build it in his head.
By the time we exit into the main restaurant, the deal is already leaning and all that’s left is confirmation.
The motion-sensitive doors slide open seamlessly, and we step in.
“The restaurant,” Atelia begins, her voice smooth, already slipping into presentation mode, but the words barely register.
My eyes sweep the space once and then they land… On Christine. Like metal to magnet.
She’s seated across from Daniel and his fiancée.
Everything slows.
It’s been four years.
Four years of dead ends, of names that went nowhere, of places that almost led somewhere but didn’t. Four years of not finding her.
And now, she’s here. Of all the places I’d imagined I'd see her again.
A disbelieving breath leaves me, cutting through the control I don’t usually lose.
Fuck.
What exactly have I done for the universe to be this gracious?
I lean in slightly, Atelia’s voice drifting somewhere behind me, Sullivan responding with something that doesn’t stick because I’m not listening.
She’s different.
That’s the first thing I notice, not all at once, but in layers the longer I look. Her posture is straighter, like she knows exactly where she is and doesn’t need to adjust herself to fit into it.
The woman sitting across from Daniel isn’t the girl I left in that room three years ago, trying to make sense of something she didn’t choose.
This one looks like she made her own choices. And kept them.
“There’s a wedding here?” Sullivan asks, his gaze catching on the arrangement being discussed in the distance, the subtle shifts already hinting at something more than a regular service day.
“Yes,” I answer, almost absently, my attention elsewhere. “It’ll be our first event.”
God, she’s beautiful.
“Robert.” Atelia’s voice cuts in.
I blink once, pulling myself back into the room, into the conversation still waiting for me to finish it.
Sullivan is watching now. Observant, as expected from me like him.
“We’ll finalize everything based on your requirements.” I clear my throat, my tone passing for unaffected. “You’ll have full access to the space for the duration of the conference.”
He nods, satisfied, but there’s a question in his eyes now.
I don’t give him anything to confirm it.
“I have another engagement,” I add smoothly, already stepping away without breaking the rhythm. “Atelia will take care of the remaining details.”
“Of course.” She doesn’t miss a beat, turning toward him with that same polished ease. “We can go over the branding integrations and final logistics.”
I don’t wait for more.
I’m already moving.
The door to my office slides shut behind me, cutting off the noise of the restaurant, the conversation, and the presence of everything that doesn’t matter anymore.
I lean into the silence, listening for the sound of my own heartbeat.
I don’t go to the desk, instead, I go to the seating area, dropping into the leather sofa with an exhale that doesn’t release what’s sitting in my chest.
Four fucking years.
My hand reaches for the decanter before I think too much of it.
I pour, the whiskey slushing into the glass in a slow amber swirl, catching the light just enough to remind me I’m still in real-time.
A pinch of salt follows.
I swirl it once, watching it dissolve before bringing the glass to my lips.
The burn stabs me in the chest, but it’s nothing like what just walked back into my life without warning.
I lean back slightly, the glass resting loosely in my hand as the image comes back again, uninvited.
The image comes back again, uninvited.
Mine.
My Bonbon.
I take another sip, the burn hitting, but it doesn’t do what it’s supposed to. It doesn’t dull anything. If anything, it wipes off the fog, bringing everything into focus.
I set the glass down and push up from the sofa, restlessness chewing into my bones.
I start walking.
Across the length of the office, past the desk I haven’t touched, past the glass that reflects me in fragments when I don’t look directly at it.
I clasp my hands behind my back, my fingers locking loosely as I turn again, but the room doesn’t come back into focus the way it should.
Because it’s not this room I’m seeing anymore.
It’s that one.
The hotel suite. The bathroom. The way the air had felt when I slid inside her and fucked us both to oblivion.
We had sex everywhere that night.
Against the cold marble in the bathroom, the bed that never stayed untouched for long. The center table, the wall that held her when she couldn’t hold herself anymore. The wardrobe she was pressed into like there was nowhere else to go.
Even the floor.
No space was left untouched.
My cock reacts slightly, the memory not fading the way it should.
I remember the marks.
The ones I left. The ones she didn’t stop me from leaving.
There’s a brief, unbidden thought of whether her skin still carries them. Whether there are faint traces of where my teeth bit too hard, where I didn’t care to be gentle.
Because I know my body still carries the faint line beneath my ribcage, that’s now barely visible unless you know where to look. I can still feel it if I think about it long enough. The drag of her fingers, across my skin, like she needed to leave something behind too.
I exhale slowly through my nose, trying but failing to force the memory back into place.
The door slides open and I halt in my tracks.
“You left.” Atelia saunters in, closing the door behind her, her tone light but her eyes already searching, already dissecting. “Abruptly.”
“I reassigned the meeting.”
“That’s not what I said.” She stops, folding her arms across her chest.
“What do you want, Atelia?” I exhale slowly, then face her.
She studies me for a second longer than necessary, like she’s deciding which version of me she’s dealing with.
“You don’t walk away from a client like that unless something’s off.” She steps further into the room. “And you don’t get distracted, at least not in the middle of a negotiation.”
“I handled what needed to be handled.”
“You avoided it,” she counters smoothly.
“I received an update that requires my attention,” I shoot. “Time-sensitive.”
“From where?” Her brow lifts slightly.
“Operations.”
It’s vague enough to close the door without sounding dismissive.
She doesn’t like it. I can see it. But she adjusts. She always does.
“Fine.” She nods after a beat, smoothing a hand over the front of her blazer. “I’ll finalize Sullivan.”
“You will.”
“You’re sure there’s nothing else I should know?” She presses, softer this time, like she’s shifting tactics instead of retreating.
“No, Atelia.” I meet her gaze fully now.
She holds it for a second longer, searching for something I’m not giving her.
Then she nods.
“Alright.” She turns, walking toward the door, but pauses just before she reaches it. “You’ve never let anything pull you out of a room like that before.”
I don’t respond, because there’s nothing to say that serves me.
After a second, she leaves.
I don’t waste time.
I move to the desk this time, pick up the phone, and dial the security unit.
“Yes, sir.”
“Bring her to me,” I speak into the intercom. “The woman who's currently sitting with Daniel and his fiancée.”
“Yes, sir.”
The line disconnects.
I set the phone down slowly, my fingers lingering on it for a fraction longer than necessary before I pull away.
And then… I wait.
A few minutes in and the waiting feels the same as water torture.
Every sound outside the door becomes distinct. Footsteps, voices lowered just enough to remain professional, and the distant rhythm of service beginning to build as the restaurant prepares for the afternoon rush.
Everything is moving exactly as it should.
Except me.
I move once more, slower this time, my gaze drifting briefly to the glass wall before returning to nothing in particular.
My hands rest at my sides now, no longer locked behind me, tension shifting from my shoulders to my spine.
A buzz from the door breaks through it.
I don’t answer, but the door opens anyway.
I drag in a deep breath, expecting to see her when I turn.
But it’s just one of the kitchen managers stepping in, already mid-sentence, urgency pushing ahead of him.
“Sir, the delivery you approved for the seafood line hasn’t arrived. We’ve contacted the supplier twice, but…”
“Source it elsewhere.”
He falters slightly, thrown off by how quickly it’s handled.
“We’ll incur additional cost if we…”
“Then incur it,” I cut in, my tone final.
He nods quickly.
“Yes, sir.” He’s gone just as fast as he came, the door closing behind him with a soft click that barely holds before it opens again.
This time, it’s not operations.
It’s one of the event coordinators, younger and in an oversized suit, a tablet clutched too tightly in his hand.
“Sir, the Sullivan team is asking about staging dimensions. They want to confirm if the elevated platform can support…”
“Where’s Atelia?”
“Outside.” He blinks. “Busy with him.”
“Send them the specs,” I clip, already turning away. “Everything they need is in the file.”
“Yes, sir.” He lingers a second, like he wants to say more.
The door shuts again and silence returns, but it’s thinner now. Worn.
I go back to the sofa, dropping into it, the leather giving just enough under my weight before settling.
I reach for the glass without thinking and finish what’s left in a single swallow, the burn sharp, immediate, but not nearly enough to cut through what’s sitting under my skin.
The buzz cuts through the room again.
My teeth clamp down, irritation simmering to the surface.
I don’t need more questions.
Still, this is what I signed up for.
It’s a new establishment with new staff. Fresh faces who haven’t gathered enough experience and expertise.
Someone has to give them a shot.
Someone has to teach them how this works.
I exhale slowly, waiting.
The door opens and the head of security steps in first, his posture straight in a black suit.
“Sir.” He bows briskly, stepping to the side.
Christine steps in behind him.
And everything else falls away.
There you are. Took you long enough.