Chapter 35
I hate packing more than unpacking. At least with unpacking, you're building a life, but packing is tearing one down.
I fold dresses and t-shirts, grumbling along the way.
Meanwhile, Ben plays DJ, his playlist a Frankenstein of Nas and Frank Sinatra. And then that one slip when he played "More Than a Woman" by the Bee Gees, which I poked him about.
He's also been occasionally pacing with his phone, muttering at some app he won't tell me about, which only feeds my nerves.
I hope he's just fighting the Wi-Fi router again; that's what it is.
The whole conversation about Mount Sinai completely threw me off, but he keeps claiming it doesn't mean anything.
Maybe it doesn't; maybe it's just my anxiety that doesn't allow me to trust people and keeps me thinking they'll always leave me.
I don't even want to go when I think of everything we've done together, and it's been a lot.
I'll miss him reading me—literally.
Ben bought every edition and cover of my books and arranged them in the library like we owned the place. At night, he pulls one down, flips to a random page and reads.
Sometimes he'll quiz me—what did you mean here?—as if he wants to see if my meaning matches his. Usually it does.
And then there's that new talent he says I sparked in him—he turned into a beautifully perverse poet. Red stickies are left all around the apartment whenever the muse strikes.
I pluck my favorite off my luggage handle. Show me where your starlight pools, and I'll dive, mouth-first.
"Hey, you're not touching that," Ben calls.
I turn to him while he stands in the kitchen, finishing the bodega sandwiches and pointing at me. It's technically a breakfast dish but we eat it all the time.
Smirking, I put the note back on the handle. "Alright. TSA is going to love this one."
"Also—" He hands me the sandwich and pulls out my I'm Red Velvet For Him set from the luggage. "You're wearing this on the plane. And yes, I will supervise."
My brows quirk. "How? You're not even on my flight."
"I'm not telling you, but just know—" He taps his eyes with two fingers, then gestures at me, the unspoken I'm watching you sign.
I laugh and we both plop on the sofa by the window.
The city outside softens, the sky turning gold above Central Park.
We're the first building on its edge, so from here you can see everything—even the thin silver of the Hudson in the distance.
New York sunsets this time of year shouldn't be this breathtaking, but they are since I get to experience them with him. For once, I can appreciate them for what they are.
"But if you're not next to me, it's going to point to someone else," I press. "Are you trying to get the guy next to me to flirt?"
"There's no guy next to you. You're in first class."
I blink. "What? You got me first class?"
Chewing, he nods. "You wear that outfit, stick my photo on top—instant armor."
"Armor that costs a fortune," I protest, mouth half full. "You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to. This way you'll be comfortable."
"I'm totally fine flying coach. I love the thrill of fighting for elbow space and tepid coffee," I joke.
He smiles softly. "I like that you haven't changed. You're still the same girl who doesn't splurge. But now—You're my girl. Mine. Only mine. Which means I get to ruin you in the most decadent ways."
"That ship has sailed. You spoiled me beyond reparation." I sort of bat my eyes. Blink them once, twice. "But I don't want you bleeding money over me."
He puts both our sandwiches on the table and pulls me on his lap to straddle him, then puts his hands on my back.
"Emma, I didn't joke when I said we have plenty of money," he says, purposely weighing the word we. "If I can get you anything, I will. Always."
"Fine then," I say, scheming as I tap my chin. "Next time—private jet. Otherwise, I'll throw a full toddler tantrum."
He leans back against the sofa, slides down, head tipping onto the rest and nods.
"I already thought about that. It's definitely happening," he says, expression conniving. "When we fly together, the sky won't know what hit it."
"Mm? Captain Cock taking me for a joyride?"
He blinks. "Did you just say cock?"
"Yup," I say, pulling a face. "Thanks to you I'm way more evolved now. It's a cock."
He hums, licking his lips and smiles. "You make me proud. I should teach you more things."
I shoot him a teasing look, running my nail up and down his neck. "Like what things?"
"Like advanced vocabulary—'Yes, Ben,' and 'don't stop.' And some survival skills—like how to breathe when I'm done with you."
I roll my eyes playfully. "And here I was silly enough to think you'd actually teach me how to fly?"
"For the record, I actually do have my pilot's license. I could take you anywhere."
Of course, he does—he's born to soar.
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. "And what can't you do?"
"Paul and I trained together when I got back to New York," he starts, but then stops and his hand slides up my leg. "I wouldn't want to fly that plane, though. The only cockpit I care about is between your thighs."
"I think you believe my thighs are a national park and you've got twenty-four-hour access," I say, mock-indignant.
His eyes pinch in a hot flash. "Did you just say national park? As in public property?"
That look... I know that look.
"Fuck no," he snaps before I have a chance to say anything. "Thanks for reminding me—give me your phone."
"What? Why?" I snap back, but that hand is just waiting.
With an exaggerated sigh, I dig my phone out of my pocket and slap it into his palm.
He's already unlocking his own, thumbs moving with brisk precision while he angles it away from me so I can't see.
I squint at him, giving him my don't-mess-with-me stare. What is he doing?
Then, almost ceremoniously, he sets both phones down on the sofa next to us, screens dark.
"What the hell was that?" I say, snatching mine back. The screen lights up and—oh, my wallpaper's changed to the photo Mara posted on his socials.
"Uh-huh. Cute," I say, then narrow my eyes on him. "But what about you?"
His hand flashes up instantly, like he knew this argument was coming, and his phone screen glows to life: a photo of just me.
He took it last week in that vinyl bar where we kissed like it was the first time.
I'm in the black low-cut dress, hair tousled, cheeks flushed, straight after he was done with me.
You can even see the faint mark of his teeth on my jaw, where he couldn't resist leaving evidence.
So, okay, I lean in and pull his lip tenderly as a tiny acknowledgment.
"And—" he mumbles while I'm busy nibbling, and opens another app.
I let go and squint at it as my name glows on his screen.
Location: New York. This very building. Me: a blinking dot.
My breath stops the second I realize what it is, and I clutch my phone like that could somehow rewind the casual invasion of privacy.
"What! Ben! No! You haven't even asked me!" I shoot out, scowling.
"Do I have to ask you?" He looks at me like it's not a big deal, like the decision was mutual. "This way I'll know you're safe, especially when I'm gone. So don't be stubborn."
My eyes flare. "I'm stubborn? You're stubborn! And mad! And jealous!" I toss out, hoping it'll land somewhere that stings.
"Hell yeah, I'm jealous," he says, leveling me with a stare. "Have you seen yourself? Heard your laugh? Been there when you look up and smile? You're every guy's dream."
My mouth does a silly pout, but then I shake my head, still bristling. "I barely go anywhere. You're seriously going to track me while I'm chained to my desk all day?"
"Yeah. And don't forget to call me when you get home. I don't want you to go to the apartment alone. Pack your stuff and go upstairs." His tone is sharp, like he already thinks I won't listen.
I roll my eyes. "Richard isn't going to hurt me, and I'll have to speak to him about the divorce anyway."
Ben shakes his head resolutely. "I've seen men like him. They smile right before they snap. You can speak to him when I'm back, next to you and know he can't hurt you. Understood?"
I tip my head back, groaning. "Seriously, you're being dramatic."
"Emma?" His chin dips, and he gives me a look that says he's growing impatient. "I said no."
When he sees my sulking face, the command softens. "Not because I don't trust you. I don't trust him. If something happened to you, I'd make him wish he was never born. You want me to go to prison?"
I remember the time he came this close to losing it with Richard, the way his arm was ready to kill, and I don't want that to happen. So I nod.
"Good." He smiles and glances at his phone, at the little dot. "Looks cute, no? Like a beating heart."
"Not cute," I mumble, glaring again.
He huffs a laugh at my tantrum and takes my phone, pulls up the same app, then holds it out in front of my face.
Ben. His location. His transparency.
"Now you'll also know where I am. What I'm doing. Every second." His eyes meet mine. "Fair?"
This man. This impossible, intoxicating man.
I pause at the glowing dot. It's the kind of access I've never given anyone, not with any of my partners. Although Ben had the run of my phone from day one in New York.
Now, for the first time in our history, he's handing me the same, as proof we've come a long way.
So yeah, not only is it fair, but I think I love it.
"Fine, stalker," I say at last, trying my best to sound blasé.
"Good. Matter closed," he says and winks.
I search those onyx eyes as if I do it long enough, maybe I could decode him.
"Have I ever told you how dangerous your eyes are?" I whisper. "Sometimes I want to dive in, see everything exactly as you do."
He pulls me closer until our foreheads touch. "I want that too. Then you'd know every single way I see you. How perfect you are for me."
I pout and kiss him. Then scrape enough strength to jump up, gather the plates, rinse them, and stack them neatly in the sink. Not because I care, but because if I don't keep moving, I might cancel that damn flight.
"I never thought I'd say this, but I'll miss New York," I admit. "Miss us, like this, without the noise... I'll miss our apartment, too."
Even though it's not our apartment, it feels like it now.
It's an open concept loft on the thirty-first floor.
Renovated and sleek, everything black marble and stone, furniture the way I like it—contemporary.
They preserved that raw New York vibe with steel beams, raw brick in the huge open living room, and windows so tall they are for giants—for Ben—tinted just enough to feel intimate.
"You'll miss your closet more than me," he teases, voice too confident to sound envious.
I pad across the house barefoot and gesture at the cavernous walk-in. It dwarfs the closet I have in San Francisco.
"Have you seen it?" I demand, throwing my arms wide in full showmanship. "I need this. Non-negotiable. The only thing missing is a crystal chandelier swinging overhead while I destroy it daily with my chaos."
"Uh-huh." He stretches out on the sofa, one ankle crossed over his knee, fingers laced behind his head. "What else would you want?"
I narrow my eyes at him. "Are you humoring me, or you actually want to know?"
Surprisingly, he shakes his head, without any smirk. "No, baby, I want to know. Tell me everything."
"Alright," I say, smiling. "We definitely need more lamps in here, soft yellow light, black shades, Parisian style, making our house look cinematic. By the entrance, we'd have dozens of frames, all sizes, with our random photos. Nothing staged. Also, we need a mirror in the bedroom. Big one."
"I like how you're thinking." He gives me a sly look.
I purse my lips. "I knew you'd say that."
I dash to the far corner and brush my fingertips across the buttery leather arm of an armchair.
"Here—a grand piano. With a spotlight that throws light across your face while you play something tragic.
Meanwhile, I sit here—" I skip to the other side of the woven rug. "Your very own tortured muse, writing."
"No," he cuts in smoothly. "You get the other bedroom as your study. Keep those crazy thoughts locked. Here? I watch my movies. Projector instead of TV. Obviously."
"Obviously." I parrot him.
He pretends to shoot me with an imaginary arrow, but I dodge it dramatically and dart toward the entry corridor, where a small round table holds a vase with fake peonies.
"Right here." I spin, palm thudding on the table. "We need a statement piece—something that steals breath the second someone walks in."
Ben stands, strolling toward me with that unhurried step. "Then you'd have to stand there all day. Be the statement," he smirks. "A silent one. Finally."
My lips purse. The rush to fling myself at him curdles into a sharp smack against his shoulder. "Keep dreaming. I'll blabber into your head until you die."
He laughs and catches my wrist mid-retreat, bringing it to his mouth to kiss my fingers. His eyes soften, unguarded. "You know I'll go insane once you're gone. This place without you will be empty."
"This place?" I frown. "But you'll be with your parents?"
He shakes his head slowly. "Doesn't matter. Life gets too quiet when you're not with me, and I hate that quiet."
I give him a quick kiss, but then pull back. "Why do I feel like you're not telling me something?"
He looks at me, hiding his true expression, then cracks a tiny smile. "You think too much. Ready for bed?"
I don't want to ruin our last night with a fight, so I exhale loudly and throw my arms around his neck. "Bed. But only if there's cuddling."
"There's always cuddling," he says and I smile, but in the back of my mind, I know... He's for sure lying to me.