Chapter 6
UNFINISHED BUSINESS
Closure is a story we tell ourselves to survive the chapters we aren't ready to end
Della
Sunday evening drapes itself over the city, soft and warm, but something still weighs on my chest as Jane pulls the car up in front of my hotel.
“You’ll be fine,” she says, giving my hand a warm, steady squeeze as we sit parked at the curb. “Live your dreams, Della. Don’t outrun them.”
I smile faintly, my fingers tightening around the strap of my bag.
“Thank you for everything, Jane.”
Her eyes soften, kindness and quiet strength shining through.
“You know where to find me, sweetheart. Anytime.”
As I shut the door, she rolls down the window and calls out with a playful grin.
“Let’s meet again before you leave! Lunch or dinner in the city—maybe at that Spanish place you loved so much…”
I laugh softly, the tension easing from my shoulders.
“I’d love that! I’ll check my schedule and let you know.”
“Perfect, sweetie!”
I stay there for a moment, watching her drive away, her taillights slowly melting into the city’s glowing pulse, before I turn back toward the hotel’s glass doors—ready to face whatever waits beyond them.
In my room, the first thing I see is the bouquet of pale pink peonies—still there, their petals just beginning to wilt, like ghosts refusing to fade.
I close the door and exhale slowly.
I pull out my phone from my bag. It had been off since the call with Silvia—I needed peace.
Now, as the screen lights up, notifications flood in.
Missed calls. Messages.
Dorian.
I don’t open a single one.
I simply lock the screen again and set the phone face-down on the table.
I will not let him in. Not into my mind. Not into my heart.
Not again.
Still, there’s a pinch of guilt pulling at me—not because of him, but because I left Adriana completely in the dark all weekend.
I call her right away.
“Della!” Adriana’s voice bursts through the phone, bright and teasing. “How was the big emotional reunion with your foster mom? I was about to call the embassy! You had your phone off the entire weekend.”
I laugh softly, easing back onto the bed.
“It was exactly what I needed. Quiet. Familiar.”
“Well, I hope your ‘quiet’ looked better than my weekend of burgers and beer with the Chicago office crew,” she teases.
“It actually does sound fun,” I reply, smiling.
“It was,” she says, laughing. “But I still feel abandoned.”
I smile, warmth creeping back in.
“Then let me make it up to you. There’s a little Mexican place near the hotel I spotted—tacos, burritos, margaritas… Come with me for dinner? You’ve had the burgers, now it’s time for some spice.”
Adriana laughs, delighted. “That sounds amazing. You’re on.”
Relief sweeps through me—light, simple, easy.
Tomorrow will bring its own storm.
But tonight, we just eat tacos.
* * *
Monday morning greets me with sharp light pouring through the glass walls of the Chicago headquarters—sleek, bright, designed to impress.
Adriana and I walk in together, heels tapping softly against the polished floor, the faint hum of productivity buzzing all around us.
Greg is already waiting when we step into the conference room.
Tall, lean, with light brown hair neatly styled, he wears a pale blue suit—just enough edge to soften his corporate sharpness. He’s known around the agency for his easy charm and razor-sharp instincts. A man who rarely misses details.
“Morning, ladies,” he greets, standing as we approach, his tone warm but professional.
Adriana smiles brightly, ever her usual self, while I offer a polite nod, settling in across from him.
He doesn’t waste time.
“I have to say,” Greg begins, leaning back in his chair with practiced ease, “your presence at the conference last week didn’t go unnoticed. Especially during the client discussion—you guided that meeting seamlessly.”
I keep my expression steady, voice calm.
“We had a clear strategy going in. We’re glad it showed.”
For a brief moment, Greg’s eyes hold mine—thoughtful, assessing—but I simply return his gaze, steady, unmoved.
He moves on, shifting the discussion toward upcoming campaigns and a few projects in development. Adriana dives in, lively and eager, while I stick to facts—precise, concise, cutting through the noise.
The meeting flows smoothly, each of us playing our role.
By the time we wrap, Greg leans back, visibly satisfied.
“Well,” he says, tapping his pen against the table, “I think we should explore this further. There’s a project coming down the pipeline that could benefit from your insight—especially while you’re both here.”
He glances between us, then smiles—easy, casual.
“Why don’t we discuss it over lunch? There’s an Italian spot nearby—quiet, good food.”
Adriana lights up immediately. “Sounds great.”
I nod, composed. “Of course.”
Greg’s smile lingers for a beat longer, then he stands, gesturing toward the door.
As we follow him out, I keep my focus straight ahead—unaware of the storm quietly building elsewhere.
* * *
Dorian
I’m pacing my office.
I’ve been in since dawn—like every day. Always the first in, always the last out.
That’s the rule now.
After everything I lost five years ago—after clawing my way back from debts and threats and watching everything I built teeter on the edge—I swore I’d never let myself slip again.
These days, my life is simpler—but sharper.
I’ve rebuilt from the ground up. Sold what needed selling, paid off every cent I owed, and never forgot the sting of those nights when the phone wouldn’t stop ringing with debt collectors.
Now, I own three buildings in the heart of Chicago. A private club that practically prints cash on weekends. Two restaurants that I keep quietly in the background. Nothing extravagant—but steady. Mine.
I built this life slowly. Brick by brick. No more reckless deals. No more risks I couldn’t control.
But then there was her.
The image of her still haunted me.
Della in that red dress at the club.
Della’s lips, parted in defiance.
Della at that hotel. That pale blush dress—soft, flowy—barely cinched at the waist, skimming her curves just enough to tempt without trying.
Her coppery curls tumbled down her shoulders, loose and effortless, yet deliberate.
She looked calm. Untouchable.
And yet… when I touched her. When my fingers wrapped around her delicate wrist—thin, fragile, far softer than I remembered—something shifted.
In me. In her.
She tensed, just for a heartbeat. Her mask slipped, even if only for a second.
And God, I felt it too. The jolt. The heat of her skin under mine. The sharp inhale as my lips brushed near her hair—her scent, familiar and maddening, dragging me straight back to places I’d locked away for years.
I’d meant to stay in control. I’d meant to intimidate her, to pull her back toward me. But for a second… I wasn’t sure which one was more shaken.
And when she walked away, all I could think about was following her.
My hands itched to grab the keys, to trail her steps—just to know where she went, who she saw, what she was thinking.
But deep down, I knew. She went to Jane.
I remembered how close they’d been. The way Jane had welcomed her, protected her, loved her like a daughter.
No matter how much it burned, I’d stayed back. I told myself she needed that comfort. Told myself it wasn’t my place. Not yet.
But now?
I stare at my phone, jaw clenched tight.
No replies. Not one.
The messages still marked unread. I’m being ghosted. And it makes my skin crawl.
I drag my focus back to my desk, to the stack of contracts, permits, budgets—responsibilities that don’t wait, no matter how much my thoughts wander elsewhere.
I move through them methodically, making notes, signing what needs to be signed. Calls come in—one from the manager at Excalibur, giving me the weekend report. I listen, ask a few sharp questions about upcoming events, but my mind still drifts.
Next, a video call with a partner from my investment group—discussing a property acquisition deal outside the city. I keep my tone steady, my responses sharp, but inside, I’m only half-present. I nod at the right moments, close the call, and stare at the empty chair across from me.
It’s pointless.
I’ve built enough to know the weight of responsibility. Enough to know how to compartmentalize when necessary. But not today.
I check the time. Almost noon. Without hesitation, I press the intercom.
“Call the agency,” I say, voice clipped, low. “Ask to speak with her.”
A minute later my assistant, Julian calls back.
“She’s in a meeting, sir. They said she’s unavailable at the moment.”
I inhale slowly, forcing patience.
“Then try again. Keep trying until you reach her.”
I cut the line before hearing another excuse.
Moments later, David appears in the doorway, eyebrow raised, watching me with that same knowing look he always reserves for my worst decisions.
“You’re spiraling,” he mutters, closing the door behind him. “That’s dangerous territory, my friend.”
I don’t look at him. My gaze stays pinned to the city skyline beyond the window.
“She’s ignoring every message, David,” I say, my voice flat, controlled—but the heat beneath it leaks through. “She’s here, walking around my city, acting like nothing happened and I’m supposed to sit back and do nothing?”
David steps fully into the room, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. He leans against the edge of my desk, arms crossed, his sharp gaze pinned on me.
“You honestly think this is the smart move?” he asks, his voice low but firm. “Having your assistant chase her down like some corporate errand?”
I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair.
“I need to talk to her,” I mutter. “I need to understand what happened when she left. Why she never answered the phone. Why she never called back.”
David raises an eyebrow, folding his arms across his chest.
“And chasing her down in broad daylight is the way?”
Before I can reply, my intercom buzzes again.
“She just left for lunch,” my assistant reports. “With her colleagues. They’re at Rossi Trattoria, the Italian place next to their office.”
I don’t hesitate.
I push back my chair and stand, buttoning my jacket with slow, deliberate precision.
David watches me, his brow lifting slightly, half-amused, half-concerned.
“So, you’re going through with this?” he asks, tone drier now, but with a flicker of warning underneath.
I pause at the door, but the words inside me won’t stay caged anymore.
“I thought I’d never see her again,” I admit, my voice tighter, heavier than I mean it to be. “I thought it was over—lost in the shadows of the past. That it didn’t matter anymore.”
I shake my head slightly, something bitter curling in my chest.
“But it does matter. It matters like hell. And it hurts.”
I stare down at my hands, curling them slowly into fists.
“Especially after what I saw at the club. Something happened, David. I could see it in her eyes. She’s not the same. And I need to know why.”
David watches me for a long, unreadable moment, then sighs.
“Just don’t make it worse,” he says, voice low but steady.
I give him a single nod, then step out, leaving the door swinging behind me.
This time, I won’t let her disappear.