Chapter 4
POV: AMBER
By six thirty, I’ve changed outfits three times.
The bed is covered with dresses I rejected in increasingly dramatic stages of frustration.
Too formal.
Too casual.
Too obvious.
I stare at the last option hanging from my fingers.
Red.
Of course it’s red.
The dress hugs my waist and hips like it was made for me, the fabric soft and smooth against my skin when I slide it on. The neckline dips just enough to feel dangerous without crossing into inappropriate.
Professional dinner.
Right.
I turn slowly in front of the mirror.
The dress fits perfectly.
Maybe a little too perfectly.
I grab my phone before I can spiral any further and call the only person who will give me a brutally honest answer.
Patrisha answers almost immediately.
“Please tell me you’re calling because the world is still falling apart.”
“It might be,” I mutter.
I tuck the phone between my shoulder and ear while stepping into heels.
“I’m getting ready for dinner.”
“With Mr. Sterling?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And Ethan,” I say.
Patrisha hums.
“And?”
“And Alexander.”
She makes a dramatic choking sound.
“Oh my God. The universe really woke up today and chose violence.”
I sigh, leaning against the dresser.
“It’s a professional dinner.”
“Sure it is.”
“It is.”
“Amber.”
“What?”
“You’ve gone to professional dinners like that a hundred times.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you sound like you’re preparing for battle?”
I hesitate.
Because the truth is embarrassingly simple.
“I’m nervous.”
The words leave me quietly.
Patrisha goes silent for a moment.
“Okay,” she says finally, softer now. “That part makes sense.”
I look at my reflection again.
“He brought me coffee this morning,” I admit.
Her gasp explodes through the phone.
“He WHAT?”
“It was nothing.”
“It was not nothing.”
“It was just coffee.”
“Amber.”
“What?”
“That man broke your heart twice and the first thing he does when he sees you again is bring you your favorite coffee?”
I rub my temple.
“Don’t make it sound like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like it means something.”
Because it probably doesn’t.
Because men like Alexander Fitzgerald don’t spend twelve years thinking about the girl they left behind.
Patrisha sighs.
“Okay, important question.”
“What?”
“What are you wearing?”
I glance down.
“A red dress.”
There’s a long pause.
“Define red dress.”
“It’s just a dress.”
“Amber.”
“It hugs a little.”
“How much is a little?”
I groan.
“Patrisha.”
“Amber Scott.”
“It hugs my curves,” I admit.
Her delighted laugh fills my ear.
“Oh my God.”
“It’s professional!”
“It’s a revenge dress.”
“It is not.”
“Amber, if the worst-case scenario tonight is you walking into that dinner looking like that while the man who broke your heart watches you exist, I think you’re going to survive.”
I can’t help laughing.
“Maybe.”
“And if he’s married?”
My laughter fades.
“Exactly,” I say quietly. “He probably is.”
Men like him always are.
Successful. Charming. Powerful.
There’s probably a beautiful wife somewhere in the world who wakes up next to him every morning.
The thought tightens something uncomfortable in my chest.
“But even if he is,” I continue, “I still feel nervous around him.”
“Of course you do,” Patrisha says gently.
“You loved him.”
Loved.
Past tense.
Right.
“Just remember,” she adds, her tone shifting back to playful, “if he looks even slightly uncomfortable tonight, that dress is already doing its job.”
I shake my head, smiling.
“Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need luck,” she says.
“You need wine.”
***
The restaurant sits right on the water.
Soft golden lights glow through the large windows, reflecting off the dark harbor outside.
The smell of salt and grilled seafood drifts through the evening air as I step inside.
My nerves immediately spike.
Mr. Sterling is already at the table.
Ethan sits beside him, mid-sentence about something involving shipping logistics.
And across from them—
Alexander.
His eyes lift the second I approach.
And for a moment he just… looks at me.
Not politely.
Not casually.
Slowly.
His gaze moves over the red dress, taking in every detail before returning to my face.
Something shifts in his expression.
Something darker.
My pulse stumbles.
“Amber,” Mr. Sterling says warmly. “You look lovely.”
“Thank you.”
I slide into the empty seat beside Ethan.
Alexander sits across from me.
Which means every time I look up—
There he is.
Dinner starts easily enough.
Wine is poured.
Menus open.
Mr. Sterling launches into an enthusiastic explanation about the marina investors.
But under the surface, there’s a different conversation happening.
One made of glances.
Pauses.
The awareness that Alexander’s eyes keep drifting toward me.
At one point Ethan begins discussing emergency contacts for the trip.
“Just in case something happens during the site visit,” he says, scrolling through his tablet. “Standard protocol for corporate travel.”
Mr. Sterling waves a hand.
“Fine, fine. Put whatever the system needs.”
Ethan nods and starts typing.
“Amber, you’re first.”
I set my wine glass down.
“Patrisha Silva,” I say. “She works in sales at the office.”
Ethan nods.
“Got it.”
Mr. Sterling chuckles.
“That girl knows Amber better than anyone. The two of them practically run half this company.”
“That’s because someone has to,” I say lightly.
Sterling grins at me like a proud mentor.
“Amber here,” he continues to Ethan, “is married to the job.”
I lift one shoulder.
“I like the job.”
“Exactly,” he says, clearly pleased with that answer.
Ethan types the information in, then looks up again.
“And you, Mr. Fitzgerald?”
Alexander doesn’t even glance at the tablet.
“My father.”
Ethan nods.
“Name?”
“William Fitzgerald.”
Something in the way he says it is calm and neutral, like it’s simply a fact. No explanation offered, none needed.
Ethan types it in.
I take a sip of wine.
Then, before my brain can stop me, I glance at Alexander.
“No wife?”
The words come out quiet.
Almost casual.
But the table goes momentarily still.
Alexander’s eyes move to mine.
A slow, knowing look.
He shakes his head once.
“Mm-mm.”
Something warm curls in my chest before I can stop it.
I tilt my head slightly.
“No girlfriend?”
His mouth twitches.
“Mm-mm.”
Ethan looks up briefly, confused by the exchange, but Mr. Sterling is too busy cutting into his steak to notice anything.
I lift my wine glass again, pretending the question meant nothing.
Inside, however, something loosens.
Something I didn’t realize had been tight since yesterday.
The dinner continues after that.
Wine flows.
The conversation drifts between construction logistics and campaign ideas.
Alexander and Mr. Sterling debate marketing angles.
Ethan makes notes between bites of food.
But underneath all of it, a quiet current runs between Alexander and me.
Every time our eyes meet across the table.
Every pause that lasts just a fraction too long.
Eventually the plates are cleared and Mr. Sterling leans back with a satisfied sigh.
“Well,” he says, wiping his hands on a napkin, “this was a good start.”
Ethan checks his watch.
“I should head out. Early morning tomorrow.”
Sterling nods.
“Same here.”
He stands, grabbing his jacket.
Then he looks at us both.
“Don’t stay up too late. That flight leaves at nine.”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
Alexander simply nods.
Sterling claps a hand on my shoulder as he passes.
“Proud of the work you’re doing on this project, Amber.”
“Thank you.”
Then he and Ethan disappear toward the exit, their voices fading into the restaurant noise.
And suddenly—
It’s just the two of us.
The harbor lights glow through the windows.
Reflections ripple across the dark water outside, the restaurant quieter now that most of the dinner crowd has left.
I swirl the last of the wine in my glass.
Alexander hasn’t moved.
He’s watching me again.
Not intensely.
Just quietly.
Like he’s studying something familiar.
“You still drink red,” he says.
It takes me a second to realize he’s right.
“You remember that?”
“I remember a lot of things.”
Something about the way he says it makes my chest tighten.
I let out a soft breath and glance down at the wine.
“Well,” I say lightly, “my taste improved.”
His eyebrow lifts slightly.
“Oh?”
I smile faintly.
“The cheap red wine we used to drink would probably traumatize this bottle.”
A low laugh escapes him.
“The one you stole from your parents’ cabinet?”
I scoff.
“I did not steal it.”
“You absolutely did.”
“You encouraged me.”
“That’s not how I remember it.”
My smile grows despite myself.
“Please. Half the time we were drinking that awful wine you bought at that tiny market near the school.”
His grin widens.
“The one with the neon sign?”
“Yes.”
“And the owner who kept pretending we were old enough?”
“That’s the one.”
Alexander leans back slightly in his chair, shaking his head.
“We thought we were very sophisticated.”
“We were drinking it out of coffee mugs,” I remind him.
“Hey,” he says defensively, “that was romantic.”
“Romantic?”
“Friday nights,” he says, like the memory just landed in his head too. “Cheap red wine and cheese pizza.”
I blink.
God.
I had forgotten that.
It had been our thing.
Every Friday.
Pizza on the hood of his car, watching the ocean while pretending we were grown adults with exquisite taste.
A small laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
He laughs too.
And for a moment—
Just a moment—
I see him the way he used to be.
The boy with sun-bleached hair and that reckless, beautiful smile.
The boy who once felt like my entire world.
The boy I thought I would marry one day.
Have children with.
Build a life beside.
The memory hits so vividly it almost steals the air from my lungs.
And then—
Just as quickly—
Another memory follows.
The message.
The silence.
The way everything ended.
He was the one who broke my heart.
The warmth inside my chest cools.
I push my chair back and stand.
Alexander looks up at me.
“Running away already?”
There’s something teasing in his voice.
But something else too.
I meet his gaze steadily.
“I’m not the one who ran.”
The words leave my mouth quietly.
He goes still.
For a moment neither of us says anything.
Then I smooth my dress and reach for my bag.
“We have a flight tomorrow.”
His eyes linger on me as he stands too.
Slowly.
“Yeah,” he says softly.
“Tomorrow we go home.”
And suddenly the word home feels heavier than it should.