Chapter 19 #2
She scoffed. “Sure.”
Movement drew my attention. Creed stood near the bar, speaking to someone, but his gaze cut toward me—sharp, focused.
My skin prickled.
“You know he won’t take no for an answer,” Olivia said.
“I know.”
“You think you’re strong enough to resist him?”
I swallowed, still locked in his gaze. “No.” My pulse raced, his words echoing like a dare.
If you want me, come get me.
The arrogance. The certainty. The way he assumed I would break.
God help me—I almost had.
I pressed my palm to my chest. Olivia’s knowing smile didn’t help.
“I think you need to breathe,” Olivia said.
“Livvy, I’m fine,” I clipped out.
“That’s why you’re gripping your glass like a weapon?”
I forced my hand to relax.
“Creed really did this for Mommy?” she asked.
“Apparently.”
“And you’re mad because...?”
I turned toward her, jaw tightening. “Because he didn’t ask me.”
“Or are you mad because you still want him?”
My eyes narrowed. “You’re not helping, Livvy.”
She grinned. “Oh, but it’s so much fun.”
I took a steadying breath, glancing toward the other side of the room where Creed stood. He was speaking to a man in a dark suit, his expression calm, unreadable. But his gaze slid toward me like a magnet finding its charge.
I should have looked away.
I didn’t.
The corner of his mouth lifted.
Damn him.
Heat pooled low in my belly. I turned back to the paintings, steadying myself. Olivia’s knowing smirk made it worse.
“I’m going to talk to the gallery owner about...,” I said, brushing nonexistent lint from my gown. “...about the offer for Mommy’s painting.”
“You sure you’ll be able to stay focused?” Olivia teased.
“I can handle it.”
I crossed the floor to the elegant woman standing near an abstract painting.
“Excuse me,” I said smoothly.
She turned, her smile widening. “Ah. Ms. Peyton. I am Leandra.”
“Peyton Powell,” I said, shaking her hand.
Leandra was elegant and composed—gray hair swept into a soft twist, diamond earrings catching the light.
“Your mother is exceptionally talented,” she said warmly. “The depth of emotion in her pieces is breathtaking.”
“Thank you.” My gaze drifted back over toward the sad woman. My throat tightened. “Creed mentioned that someone was interested in buying this one?”
“Yes,” Leandra said. “A private collector. He’s made a very generous offer.”
She quoted an amount that made my chest tighten. I lifted my gaze toward the painting, studying the soft shadows in the woman’s face, the sadness etched into the delicate curve of her mouth.
“I won’t sell it,” I said softly. “That piece... it’s personal.”
“Okay.” Her tone was gentle. “I understand. There are others.”
I nodded. “Of course.”
Leandra looked pleased by my answer. “You must be very proud.”
I hesitated. “I am.”
“You can thank Mr. Kirkland. He’s been working with me for weeks.”
“Weeks?” I repeated.
“Oh yes. He insisted they be seen.”
Before the holidays. Before he disappeared.
I closed my eyes briefly.
Even after I’d pushed him away, he’d been working behind the scenes. For my mother. For me.
“He didn’t tell me,” I murmured.
“Yes.” Leandra’s smile was amused. “I believe he wanted it to be a surprise.”
Of course he did.
A shift behind me made my breath catch.
“Creed,” Leandra said.
He stood close now. Composed. Dangerous.
“I’ll leave you,” she said kindly.
I faced the painting again. “Taking these from my office... that was your plan?”
“You wouldn’t have let me otherwise.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Isn’t it?”
“You don’t get to decide what’s best for me.”
He stepped closer, his mouth curving faintly. “Funny. You didn’t seem to mind when I was fixing things before.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Maybe not.”
“You come in, save everything, then leave,” I said. “And I’m left—”
He caught my wrist, his grip light but unyielding. His thumb brushed over the inside of my wrist, the heat of his touch unraveling me.
“I’m still here,” he said softly.
My throat burned. “For how long?”
His hand slid up my arm, his palm curving around the nape of my neck. He tugged me closer, his mouth so close to mine I could feel the warmth of his breath.
“As long as you’ll have me,” he murmured.
His mouth brushed mine—barely.
“Take the win, Peyton.”
Then he kissed me. His mouth moved over mine—confident, hungry—but controlled.
It wasn’t a request. It was a promise. Slow. Deep. Devastating.
I broke away, breathless.
“You’re dangerous.”
“And yet,” he said softly, “you’re still standing here.”
“Stop thinking,” he murmured. “Start feeling.”
My chest tightened. And for the first time in months, I knew exactly what I had to do.
I turned and walked away.
* * *
“NOW...,” OLIVIA DEMANDED the second the limo pulled away from the curb, “...will you please tell me why we’re leaving?”
My head fell back against the seat, pulse still skidding through my veins. My skin buzzed with the aftershock of Creed’s touch, the memory of his mouth lingering like a brand beneath my skin.
“I can’t do it, Livvy,” I said quietly.
Her eyes narrowed. “Can’t do what? That man couldn’t take his eyes off you all night.”
I shrugged, forcing indifference into my voice. “So what?”
“So what?” she scoffed. “Look at what he did for Mommy. He obviously cares about you.”
“Maybe,” I said flatly.
“There’s no maybe about it.”
“I want love, Livvy.” My throat tightened. “I’m not settling for anything less.”
If I’d stayed one moment longer in that gallery, I would have folded. Creed would have pulled me under, wrapped me in that dark gravity of his, and I would have let him. Again.
“The man spent three million dollars paying off Ray’s debt to the mob,” Olivia said, incredulous. “If that’s not love, then I don’t know what is.”
A chill slid through me. The money. The danger tied to it. No one had ever fought for me the way Creed had. No one had ever moved mountains on my behalf.
But that still wasn’t enough.
“I deserve more,” I whispered.
“More than three million dollars and a man who practically worships you?”
“Yes.”
She studied me. “And what exactly does more look like?”
I didn’t have an answer. I only knew what it wasn’t. It wasn’t protection masquerading as intimacy. It wasn’t devotion that vanished the moment things turned real. I didn’t want to be fixed or guarded. I wanted to be chosen—fully, deliberately, without conditions.
Olivia sighed. “You’re overthinking this.”
“No.” My voice sharpened. “I’m finally thinking clearly.”
She gave me ninety-nine reasons why I was wrong. I nodded when appropriate, but my mind was still back in the gallery, caught in Creed’s gaze, the rough edge of his mouth, the weight of his hand low on my back.
I missed him so badly it ached.
But that didn’t make walking away a mistake.
...did it?
The car slowed in front of Olivia’s house. The driver opened the door, and I slid out. Olivia followed, and I pulled her into a tight hug, her belly soft against me, her pregnancy tempering the sharpness she usually carried.
“You’ll figure it out,” she murmured into my hair.
I smiled faintly. “Go inside. Get some rest.”
“Take your own advice,” she teased, squeezing my hand before heading up the driveway. I waited until her door closed, then climbed back into the car.
The car pulled away from Olivia’s curb, the tires whispering against wet pavement as we merged back into the flow of traffic. The city unfolded slowly outside the window—storefronts glowing, traffic lights blinking red to green to red again. Ordinary. Unbothered.
I rested my head against the glass and closed my eyes.
Creed’s mouth.
His hands.
The weight of his presence still clung to me like smoke.
I hated how deeply he lived in my soul. How easily he bypassed logic and went straight for something older, quieter, more dangerous. I had left because I knew if I stayed, I would have given him everything again without proof he could stay once the moment passed.
The drive felt longer than it should have. Or maybe I needed it to be.
By the time we turned onto my street, the ache in my chest had dulled into something steadier. Controlled. Manageable. I told myself it was strength.
The car slowed in front of my house.
The driver stepped out and opened my door. Cool night air brushed over my bare shoulders as I stepped onto the pavement, the hem of my gown whispering around my ankles.
“Would you like me to wait until you’re inside, Mrs. Powell?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said quickly—then softened it. “Thank you.”
My heels clicked against the pavement as I made my way to the door.
A chill swept over me, the kind that had nothing to do with the weather. A slow prickle ran down my spine.
Someone was watching.
I glanced toward the street. Empty. No cars. No figures lurking beneath the streetlights.
Get a grip.
Still, the feeling didn’t fade.
The driver lingered beside the car, watching me carefully.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside. I listened to the low rumble of the engine as the driver pulled away from the curb.
Inside, the house was dark and still. The kind of quiet that made every sound feel amplified. I locked the door, armed the alarm, and stood there for a moment with my hand resting against the wood.
Breathing.
In my bedroom, I kicked off my heels and crossed the room, loosening the clasp at the back of my neck.
The black dress slid down my body, pooling at my feet.
The woman who had worn it tonight—sharp, polished, composed—felt like someone else entirely.
I pulled on a silk robe, tied it loosely, and padded barefoot back downstairs.
Only then did I make myself a cup of chamomile tea.
The mug was warm in my hand as I crossed to the living room window, the stars stretching out beneath the dark sky. Endless. Indifferent. My reflection stared back at me—eyes shadowed, mouth set, a woman pretending she hadn’t just walked away from the one man who could undo her.
A car slowed at the curb.
My pulse jumped before my mind caught up.
I leaned closer to the glass.
The headlights cut.
The engine went quiet.
Creed’s car.
My breath caught as he stepped out, his movements sharp, purposeful. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t look around. Just walked straight toward my house like he already belonged there.
Then he lifted his phone. Within seconds, mine rang.
I stared at it for a beat longer than necessary before answering. “Yes?”
“I’m on your porch,” he said. “Open the door.”
My heart thundered as I crossed the room. I turned the lock and opened the door.
He stood beneath the porch light, tie gone, collar undone, jacket rumpled like he’d dragged his hands through his hair one too many times. But it was his eyes that caught me.
Dark. Unguarded. Wrecked.
I stared at him.
“Invite me inside.”
And before I could think better of it, I stepped back—and let him in.