Chapter 5 Ben
Ben
I step out of the cafe; the door swinging shut behind me with a soft click, but the tension follows me out like a shadow. The scent of coffee and roses lingers in the air, clinging to my skin, as if I haven’t truly left.
Lila.
I’ve sat through hundreds of business meetings—some tense, some brutal, some downright hostile. But none of them felt like this.
None of them left me so off-balance.
I hadn’t planned to play it that cold. I told myself on the way up here that I’d acknowledge her, keep it polite, light. Acknowledge our past without getting lost in it. Maybe even throw in a wry comment, something that said I remembered everything but wasn’t holding onto it.
But then I walked in, saw her standing there, a goddess. Composed, fierce, her eyes already locked on me and I choked.
My instincts kicked in, cold, controlled, professional. It’s what I do best.
Now it just feels like shit.
I saw it. The flicker of recognition in her eyes, the way her lips parted like she was about to say something.
Then it was gone.
The light dimmed, her guard snapping back into place so fast it was almost a physical thing. Her shoulders tightened, her eyes hardened, and she smiled that perfectly polite, distant smile. The same one I’d given her.
It hit harder than it should have.
I rake a hand through my hair, exhaling sharply. Fifteen years, and this place still gets under my skin.
I used to stand at Thomas’ counter after school, eating sticky buns while he and my mum talked.
Back then, he smiled at me with a warmth that felt familiar.
Today, he barely looked at me. His words echo in my head.
You really are your father’s son. My jaw tightens.
It took everything in me not to reach across the table and shut him up right then and there.
Something tightens in my chest. Guilt. I shove it aside, but it lingers.
But one thing gnawed at me throughout the entire meeting: Lila.
Lila Ng.
I glanced at her left hand more times than I want to admit, my brain circling back like a dog chasing its tail.
No ring. No tan line. Nothing.
But that doesn’t mean anything. Not everyone wears a ring. Maybe she takes it off when she works. Maybe her husband doesn’t care if she wears one. Maybe he’s the kind of man who lets his wife fight his battles while he sits on the sidelines.
That thought pisses me off more than it should.
If she’s married, where the hell was he? A real man would’ve been here, standing beside her. Protecting what’s his.
I would’ve been.
The idea of meeting him, of sizing up the man who married her, who gets to wake up beside her, touch her, know her in ways I never did, sends something dark and ugly twisting in my gut.
I have no right to care.
But I do.
I’ve been with more women than I care to admit—beautiful, intelligent, completely unattached. Women who knew the rules, who never asked for more than I could give. It was easy. Simple.
Lila is neither of those things.
No one else has ever made my chest tighten with just a glance. No one else has ever made my pulse spike with a single word.
No one else was her.
I wasn’t supposed to come back after today. One meeting. Hear them out. Nod politely. Move on. That was the plan. Clean, simple, no mess.
Then she looked at me.
Sharp. Unshakable and yet, something simmered beneath that perfectly controlled exterior.
I’ve told myself for years that leaving was the only way. That it was for the best. That she was better off without me. I want to know if she’s happy. If she hates me as much as I hate myself for what I did. If someone else stepped in and gave her the life she deserved.
I need to know.
Where was he? Her husband. A woman like her doesn’t stay single, but I never go after married women. Never.
But I can’t leave without looking him in the eye. Without knowing he treats her right. That he’s worthy of her.
By the time I reach my car, the decision is already made.
I’ll see her again.
Not for the project. Not for business.
For her.
I fish my phone out of my pocket and scroll to Claire’s number.
She answers on the second ring. Efficient as always. “Mr Ashcroft?”
“Claire, book me the penthouse at the best hotel near the site.”
Keys clack on her keyboard. “Kingsley Hotel.”
“Send me the confirmation.”
“Anything else?”
“No,” I say, already picturing the suite’s floor-to-ceiling windows and the peace of being alone while I plan my next move.
“Enjoy your stay,” Claire says before the line clicks off.
I stare at my phone for a second longer, then slip it back into my pocket and climb into the car.
I shake my head, smirking despite myself. You’re playing with fire.
Worst of all?
You’ve already decided you like the burn.