Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Robert
What’s a man to do when faced with something he’s spent years trying to find?
The question doesn’t come with an answer. It weaves, circling my mind, almost mocking, because for four years I’ve known exactly what I would do the moment I found her.
I built it up in my head in pieces. I imagined the first look, the first word, the way I’d take back what slipped through my hands that night.
And yet, none of it fits this moment.
She's standing in front of me. Alive, breathing, furious, trying to leave.
She's here.
“You just moved to Miami?” I ask.
She folds her arms across her chest, confusion breaking through the anger.
“What?”
“Daniel refused to give me your home address or last name,” I continue, my tone even, like this is just information being exchanged. “At least he did that one thing right.”
Her expression moves between disbelief and the residue of anger she’s trying to suppress.
I exhale slowly, not breaking eye contact.
“I offered to clear Daniel’s debt completely for that piece of information.”
“You did what?”
“I told him I’d wipe everything,” I continue. “Every last dollar and with no conditions.” I take a step closer. “He refused.”
Her lips part slightly, like she wants to say something but doesn’t know what to do with it yet.
“And if I had known he would refuse,” I add, softer now, “I wouldn’t have let you walk out that morning.”
“Why on God’s green Earth were you looking for me?” She holds my gaze.
“You look surprised.” I don't answer her question.
“Why?” She pushes, the word coming out strained, like she doesn’t actually want the answer.
I step closer again, catching a flicker in her alluring eyes.
“Why not?”
The space between us shrinks again, the air heated with desire like it never left, like it’s been waiting for us to return to it.
She doesn’t move.
I hold her gaze, unblinking, allowing the silence to weave between us instead of filling it.
Four years.
It should feel like time passed, but it doesn’t.
Standing here, looking at her, it feels like nothing changed direction at all. Like the space between then and now collapsed the second she walked into my office.
And I know it's mutual.
I see it in the way her fingers curl slightly, the way her shoulders stiffen before she forces them back into place.
“Since you want to be so cryptic and play wise sage with words, I’m out.”
She turns.
And I move before the thought fully forms.
My hand closes around her wrist, pulling her back in one swift motion. The folder slips from her grasp, papers scattering across the floor in a soft, useless protest as I pivot, placing myself between her and the door.
The contact hits harder than I expect, cutting straight through me, like something dormant just woke up all at once. My pulse kicks, heat flooding fast, blinding in its rush.
I’ve imagined this more times than I’d admit. I've imagined the feel of her skin. But imagination doesn’t come close to the real thing.
“Get your hands off me!” she snaps, her voice breaking through the moment as she twists against my hold, trying to pull free.
“The word is still no, baby,” I murmur, low, not rising to match her energy, not chasing her anger.
“I’m not playing your sick games with you.” She shoves me, her palm hitting my chest with more force than I expect.
I absorb it.
My gaze stays on her, fixed, taking in every flicker, every shift, every contradiction she’s trying to outrun.
“Sick? Yes. But a game? No.” My hand drags up her arm, slower this time, my fingers tracing the line of her skin like I’m reminding myself she’s real.
That she’s here. Not something I imagined into existence over the years.
She stiffens under it.
“Don’t,” she warns, but it’s not as harsh as before. There’s a break in it now, something thinner, something trying to hold its ground and slipping.
I don’t stop, because I remember her. Not just the way she looks. Not just the sound of her voice when she’s angry, when she’s pushing back.
I remember how she responds to me.
The moment where resistance turns into caving. The way her body betrays her before her mind catches up. The way she fights hardest right before she feels.
And I see it flickering under her skin now.
Her breath catches.
“So the dinner?” I throw, watching her carefully.
I don’t miss anything.
Not the way her eyes slip shut for a second when my hand finds her neck. Not the way her breath catches when my thumb brushes just beneath her ear. Not the way her body leans in, barely there, almost nothing, but enough.
“My answer is still no,” she gulps, but the words falter in delivery. Heat climbs up her neck, flush spreading across her skin, betraying everything she’s trying to keep locked down. “And I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I’m not the same girl, Robert.”
“No,” I agree easily.
I let my gaze move over her slowly, not hiding it, not softening it, letting her feel exactly what I see when I look at her curves.
“Neither am I,” I finish, stating it like a fact.
Her lips part slightly and that's all it takes.
I close the distance, slow enough for her to feel every inch of it, every shift in the air as I move into her space, my hand lifting to cup her face, my thumb settling along her jaw.
Her skin is warm, warmer than I remember. Or maybe I just forgot how it feels.
“Christine…” I breathe her name, close enough that it brushes against her lips, my body crowding hers.
My forehead almost touches hers, my breath mixing with hers.
“Fuck…” My mouth hovers just an inch from hers, close enough to feel the fire in her breath. Close enough to take.
My thumb shifts slightly, my touch sliding just enough to tilt her face, to angle her the way I want, my tongue brushing lightly along the edge of her lower lip.
“No.” Her voice cuts through the haze.
And I stop. Completely.
My eyes lift to hers, searching, not for hesitation, not for confusion, but for clarity.
She’s breathing hard, but she’s certain.
For a second, neither of us moves.
The tension doesn’t disappear. It just… holds.
Then I step back, my hand dropping from her face, the space between us returning just as quickly as I took it.
“Good girl.” I let a small smile pull at my mouth.
She blinks like she needs a second to come back into herself, like whatever just passed between us knocked something loose that she has to quickly gather before it shows.
Her hand lifts first, brushing over her hair, then her neck where I touched her, like she can erase it if she moves fast enough.
“You stay the hell away from me.” Her breathing is still erratic, chest rising a little too quickly.
She straightens fully after a second, shoulders squaring, chin lifting, like she’s rebuilding the wall she almost let slip.
There’s a flicker of something in her eyes, anger, embarrassment, but it’s contained now. Locked down where she needs it to be.
Without looking at me again, she crouches slightly to gather her things, the folder first, papers slipping slightly before she aligns them with more force than necessary. Her bag comes next, her fingers clipping around the strap like she needs something solid to hold onto.
She takes a breather, simply to reshuffle her emotions. Then she stands again. Composed again, or close enough to it.
“Am I interrupting something?” Atelia’s voice cuts through the room, smooth and unhurried, like she already knows the answer and doesn’t need it confirmed. “I came for a file.”
She doesn’t wait. She steps in anyway.
Her heels mark her entrance before anything else does, her gaze sweeping once, taking in everything.
Christine straightens immediately, faster this time, like she’s grateful for the intrusion even if she won’t admit it. The last trace of what passed between us disappears, her expression resetting into something more distant.
Atelia notices, her eyes lingering for a fraction longer than necessary. The kind of awareness that files things away instead of reacting to them.
“I didn’t realize you were occupied,” she adds lightly, though there’s nothing careless about it.
“I’m not,” I reply, my tone returning to its usual stiffness.
Christine takes the opening.
“Excuse me,” she throws, not directed at either of us.
She walks past Atelia, past me without looking back, her steps quick.
The door slides open again before closing behind her with finality.
Atelia clears her throat, walking further in to place a folder on the desk before turning to face me, her expression composed but her eyes glinting with recognition.
“That was her,” she states, not a question. “Christine.”
“Yes.”
Her gaze lingers on me for a second longer, calculating, connecting pieces that were already there.
“The same Christine?” She chuckles. “You found her,” she continues.
“No,” I correct calmly. “She walked into my restaurant.”
“She did?
I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I move back to the table.
I pick up the decanter, my fingers closing around the glass neck, grounding in a way nothing else in this room is right now.
But my mind isn’t on the drink. It’s not on Atelia. It’s not even on the conversation we’re supposed to be having.
It’s on where Christine’s hand was. The way her fingers wrapped around the glass. The way she drank like she needed it. The way her breath broke after.
My thumb brushes the same spot on the decanter before I pour, the amber liquid catching the light as it slushes into the glass.
“Small world.” I exhale finally, bringing the glass to my lips.
“Yeah.” She nods, clearing her throat.
“You didn’t find her,” I add, my voice dropping just enough to tilt the air again.
She straightens slightly, a small adjustment that most people wouldn’t catch.
I do.
“I followed every lead available at the time,” she replies smoothly. “There was nothing concrete to track.”
I take a slow sip, letting the burn nurse my thoughts.
“Miami isn’t exactly hidden,” I counter, my tone even.
I know it's a good answer. The kind that would satisfy most people.
I’m not most people.
“Robert,” she exhales, like she’s choosing patience instead of offense. “With no last name, it’s almost impossible to find anyone.”
My gaze stays on her.
“You’re thorough, Atelia.”
It sounds like a compliment. It isn’t.
She tilts her head slightly, catching it for what it is.
“I do what needs to be done.”
“I know,” I reply, setting the glass down with care. “That’s why I gave it to you.”
She doesn’t look away.
“I told you, I followed every lead,” she repeats, firmer now. “She didn’t want to be found.”
“And that stopped you?” I ask, probing.
Her expression turns cold. Subtle, but viciously her.
“You’re implying something?”
“I’m asking a question.”
“No,” she exhales, giving a small shake of her head. “You’re not. You’ve already decided there’s something to ask.”
“Okay.” I lean back slightly, watching her. “Then answer it.”
“I did,” she snaps, the first crack. “There was nothing to find.”
“She’s been in Miami for years.”
“And you know that how?” She fires back immediately. “Because you saw her once? In your restaurant? That suddenly rewrites everything?”
“It tells me she wasn’t invisible.”
“It tells you she was careful.”
I scoff. Because that’s true. On paper. In theory. But, it never stopped Atelia before.
“You don’t miss things, Atelia.”
“There’s always a first time.” Her eyes flash, just for a second. “Allow me that much.”
“I should allow you to fail me?” I ask, my voice low, but there’s an edge to it now.
“You think I failed you?” She fires back immediately, stepping forward.
“I’ve been there since before any of this,” she gestures faintly around us, meaning everything, “Before the businesses, before the expansion, before you became… this version of yourself.”
Her chest rises, her restraint is thinning.
“I’ve stood beside you through every decision that mattered. Every risk. Every win. Every mess you didn’t let anyone else see.”
She takes another step closer.
“And now,” she finishes, “Because I couldn’t find a girl you fucked for one night, I’ve failed you?”
“Watch it,” I warn.
“You watch it,” she snaps back, the last of her restraint slipping. “I’m done.”
She doesn’t wait. She turns, already moving, her heels striking the floor with purpose as she heads for the door like this conversation no longer deserves another second of her time.
For a moment, I let her go.
Almost.
“Lia,” I call out and she stops. “Come drink with me.”
It’s not an apology, but it's something close to it.
She exhales, like she’s deciding whether to ignore me or not, her back still turned, shoulders taut with everything she hasn’t said.
For a second, I think she’ll walk out anyway.
But then she turns.
Her expression isn’t soft. It doesn’t give anything away easily. But the edge has melted, not gone, just… dulled enough to let something else through.
I know something isn't right.
It's not loud enough to call out or to confront. But it's there, sitting under the surface like a grain that's out of place.
Because I know Atelia.
I know the way she works when something matters. The way she locks in, strips things down, follows threads other people don’t even notice exist.
It’s why I gave it to her.
Out of everything that needed handling back then, out of everything competing for my attention, I put that in her hands.
Finding Christine.
And if there’s one thing Atelia doesn’t do, it's fail at a task.
Unless, I tilt my head slightly as the thought takes root into something clearer.
I also know what she does when I’m distracted. I’ve seen it before.
The way she notices before anyone else does. The way she moves to cut it out, not violently, not obviously, but effectively. Removing what doesn’t serve, what doesn’t align, what has the potential to pull me off course.
She's protective. Calculated. Like a hawk that doesn’t just watch the sky, but controls what flies through it.
It’s why she’s still here.
It's why she’s always been close.
The one person who knows how my mind works and doesn’t flinch at it.
So if she saw Christine as a distraction.
Then it wouldn’t be about not finding her.
It would be about deciding not to.