Chapter 25
Unraveling
Kate lay awake in the dark, the ceiling fan turning lazy circles above her, its faint rhythmic creak the only sound in the stillness.
She’d only slept about an hour before waking, her mind too restless to surrender.
The sheets were cool against her overheated skin, the cotton soft but somehow wrong, unable to soothe the restlessness thrumming beneath her ribs.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the look on Nick’s face as he drifted to sleep beside her that first day—unguarded, almost gentle, the hard lines of his jaw softened in a way that made her chest ache.
It did something to her, that glimpse of softness. Made her want things she had no business wanting. Made her want to reach out and trace the curve of his mouth, to smooth the furrow between his brows.
Then the heat in his eyes tonight…
She shifted restlessly, pressing her palm over her heart, feeling the wild flutter of a trapped bird beating against her sternum. It thumped louder in the quiet, each pulse a reminder of how alive he made her feel.
This trip was about finishing her book, about proving she could still build something meaningful on her own.
She hadn’t planned for Nick Ivory to make everything so…
complicated. Hadn’t planned for the way her breath would catch when he walked into a room, or how the scent of his cologne—something fresh and clean—would linger in her senses long after he’d gone.
He appeared effortless in his certainty.
Someone who commanded a room with no need to raise his voice, who could tilt his head and listen in a way that said, in that moment, you were the only person in the world.
Even exhausted, he carried himself with a quiet confidence that made her feel transparent, like he could see all the places she didn’t measure up—all the cracks in her armor she’d spent years trying to hide.
A flush of self-consciousness prickled across her skin, heat blooming from her chest to her cheeks despite the cool air.
Kate remembered the photos she’d seen of him online—at charity galas and business conferences, always in a tailored suit which probably cost more than her monthly rent, always looking like he not only belonged, but owned that world.
He’d been born into that world. Old money, private schools, a last name that carried weight and opened doors before he even knocked.
She tried to picture him in her childhood kitchen, with its peeling linoleum and the dented kettle her mother refused to replace, the faint odor of mildew which never quite went away no matter how much they scrubbed.
The image didn’t fit. Neither did she. Though she had come a long way from that kitchen, her career, her life, didn’t measure up to Nick’s.
He’d built an empire. She supported herself comfortably—barely.
Some months were feast, others were famine, and the constant uncertainty gnawed at her confidence.
A sigh escaped her, trembling slightly at the edges.
You’re being ridiculous. Nick had never treated her as less.
If anything, he’d been unfailingly respectful, almost protective—holding doors, pulling out chairs, his hand at the small of her back with a warmth that seeped through fabric and into skin.
But it only made the ache worse, a hollow throb beneath her breastbone, because it reminded her how easy it would be to let herself want more.
How dangerously close she was to falling.
She wanted more. God, how she wanted. That was the problem.
She traced a fingertip over the curve of her wrist, barely touching, the phantom weight of her ex’s judgment heavy, like manacles she couldn’t quite shake off.
‘Writing isn’t real work, Kate. If it were, you wouldn’t have time to nap in the middle of the day.
’ Even after all this time, she still heard the scorn in his voice, the dismissive curl of his lip.
She’d had other dates, other men, say basically the same thing, their eyes glazing over when she mentioned her job, their interest evaporating like morning mist.
Her throat tightened, a painful constriction which made swallowing difficult.
No matter how many contracts she signed or books she sold, part of her—a small, wounded part still living in that cramped kitchen—was convinced he’d been right.
Her life wasn’t substantial enough to stand beside someone like Nick.
She played pretend with imaginary friends while he built empires, changing the world in tangible, measurable ways.
Yet, when Nick looked at her—his emerald gaze steady and searching—she felt…
seen. Like maybe he understood the parts of her she kept hidden, the fears and doubts and dreams she never spoke aloud.
Like he could see past the carefully constructed facade to the woman beneath, and didn’t find her wanting.
That was the most terrifying part of all.
She curled onto her side and pulled the sheet up to her chin, tucking it under her jaw like armor, her knees drawn up toward her chest. The position screamed defensive, protective, but it didn’t ease the vulnerability coursing through her veins.
Tomorrow, she’d focus on her work. She hadn’t come here to get tangled up in a man’s orbit, no matter how compelling. She’d come here to prove something—to herself, to the voices in her head whispering she wasn’t enough.
Tonight, alone in the dark with only the ceiling fan for company and the moonlight painting silver squares across the floor, she admitted the truth she’d tried to outrun:
She wanted him. She wanted him more than she’d wanted anything in a long time—wanted his hands on her skin, his breath against her neck, his weight pressing her into the mattress until there was no space left between them.
And she was afraid—so afraid—wanting him would only prove she didn’t belong here after all. Reaching for him would be like reaching for the sun: beautiful, impossible, and destined to leave her burned.