Maya POV
When I arrived at Noah’s house, I told myself I was here for the team. For the merger. For the celebration.
Not for him. But the lie didn’t hold for long.
Because the moment he opened the door and looked at me with that soft, tired smile—the one that never quite reached his eyes but still managed to knock the air out of my lungs—I knew I was already too far gone.
“Maya,” he said simply, as if my name alone carried weight.
His house was just as perfect as before, maybe even more so under the warm glow of champagne-colored lights and the soft hum of jazz playing in the background. A bottle of wine was already uncorked on the marble island. Two glasses. A small spread of expensive cheeses I didn’t know the names of.
“Just us?” I asked, slipping off my coat and trying to sound casual.
His smile was quiet. “Tim was supposed to come, but he bailed last minute. Alex didn’t respond.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And you didn’t think to cancel?”
He tilted his head. “Would you have stayed away if I had?”
I didn’t answer. Because we both knew I wouldn’t have.
“Come on,” he said gently, walking into the open kitchen. “Let me pour you a glass.”
I followed him, heart hammering in my chest. Something was different tonight. There was no tension. No tight shoulders. No sharp glares or clipped words. Just… comfort. Laughter. Flirting, even.
“Did you really pick this cheese just because it looks fancy?” I asked, nibbling on one of the slices.
Noah leaned against the counter, glass in hand. “What gave it away?”
“You bought truffle brie,” I deadpanned. “Who are you?”
He chuckled—a real one. “I Googled ‘impressive cheese board.’ Apparently, brie was a must.”
I stared at him. “Noah Sterling. Googling cheese. I never thought I’d see the day.”
“I’m full of surprises.”
“That’s true,” I murmured, sipping the wine.
He looked at me then—really looked. His gaze flicked to my lips, lingered, then rose back to my eyes.
My breath hitched.
And I knew.
There was no pretending tonight.
The conversation grew quieter. The music softer. The distance between us smaller.
We ended up on the couch, knees brushing. A fire danced in the background, the crackling wood syncing with the rhythm of my heart.
Noah poured more wine, but we barely touched it. Our words slowed. Our smiles faded into silence, and our silence became something heavier.
“I missed you,” he said suddenly, voice rough.
I blinked, unsure I heard him right. “What?”
“After everything… after I pushed you away. I missed you every damn day.”
I swallowed hard. “Then why did you leave me to pick up the pieces?”
“I didn’t know how to stay,” he whispered. “But I’m here now. And I don’t want to pretend anymore.”
And then—he leaned in. This time, I didn’t pull back. Our lips met slowly. Carefully. No firestorm. No rushed hunger. Just heat. And longing. And quiet desperation.
He kissed me like I mattered. Like he was afraid I’d disappear. Like he wanted to memorize the way I tasted.
And when he pulled me into his lap, hands gentle on my waist, I didn’t resist.
We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to. He carried me to his bedroom, and I clung to him like gravity had shifted.
It wasn’t just about bodies. It was about everything we hadn’t said. All the apologies. All the what-ifs. All the broken pieces slowly trying to fit together.
His hands trembled when he touched me. My heart ached when he whispered my name.
When we finally came together, it wasn’t perfect—it was better. It was raw and slow and full of tension we didn’t need to hide from anymore.
And afterward, as I lay against his chest, his fingers tracing soft patterns on my bare back, I felt like maybe—just maybe—I could breathe again.
But in the morning, the bed was empty.
I stirred slowly, sunlight peeking through his curtains, warmth still lingering on the sheets where he had been.
“Noah?” I called, sitting up.
No answer.
I pulled on his oversized button-down from the night before and padded out into the living room. Nothing. Then I saw it. On his desk.
A single sheet of paper, neatly aligned. I walked over with a knot growing in my stomach, heart thudding. It was his resignation letter. Addressed to the board. Dated this morning.
Noah Sterling had resigned.