[Caspian’s POV]
The Boston acquisition is legitimate. I don't manufacture it to get her alone—the target company exists, the numbers require her specific expertise, the audit findings make her the logical analyst to bring.
But when I send the email suggesting she join me, I'm aware of what I'm really asking. For proximity. For time outside the carefully neutral territory of our Manhattan offices. For a chance to exist in the same space without the weight of everything we've destroyed pressing down on us.
Her response takes six hours: Departure time?
No accusations. No refusal. Just professional acceptance that we both know isn't purely professional.
The flight is torture. We sit in first class—my assistant booked it that way, separate seats but close enough that I'm aware of every shift in her posture. She works on her laptop the entire time, occasionally chewing her lip in that way that proves some things survive seven years unchanged.
I pretend to read emails. Actually, I'm cataloguing details. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when concentrating. The precise angle of her wrist on the keyboard. How she orders sparkling water instead of wine because she's always refused to dull her edges, even at thirty thousand feet.
Wanting her feels like a chronic condition. Something I've learned to live with but never cured.
The meetings are fine. Good, even. We fall into our old rhythm—her analysis cutting through bullshit, my negotiations creating the framework for what she's uncovered. The target company's CFO watches us like we're a fascinating chemical reaction. Dangerous but effective.
By the time we finish, it's past eight. The October air has teeth, and Serena wraps her coat tighter as we walk to the hotel.
"That went well," she offers. Olive branch disguised as observation.
"You made it go well. The discrepancy you caught in their third-quarter projections would have cost us millions."
"That's my job."
"No." I stop walking, and she stops too, turning to face me on the darkened Boston street. "That's you being brilliant. There's a difference."
She looks away, but not before I catch the flush creeping up her neck. Pleasure at being seen. Discomfort at being vulnerable enough to show it.
We continue walking in silence that feels less hostile than it has in weeks.
The hotel lobby is all marble and quiet luxury. I approach the desk while Serena checks her phone, probably texting Maya about Aria. The clerk types, frowns, types more.
"I'm very sorry, Mr. Rothwell." Her customer service smile is strained. "There's been an issue with the reservations."
My stomach drops. "What kind of issue?"
"The system shows we only have one room available. There was a medical conference that overbooked the city. I can try other hotels, but—"
"How is that possible?" I keep my voice level despite the panic clawing up my throat. "I confirmed two rooms."
"I understand, and I apologize. The system error appears to have merged your reservations. We have a suite available—two room suite with a sitting area, but only one bedroom."
I'm already pulling out my phone. "Let me call my assistant. We'll figure something else out."
"Caspian." Serena's voice behind me. Calm. Too calm. "It's fine."
I turn. She's watching me with an expression I can't read. Suspicion, maybe. Or resignation.
"It's clearly not fine. Give me ten minutes—"
"We're adults." She cuts me off. "It's one night. I'm exhausted, you're exhausted, and I'm not spending the next hour finding another hotel because of a reservation error."
The clerk's relief is palpable. "The suite is quite spacious. Very comfortable—"
"We'll take it." Serena's tone brooks no argument.
Five minutes later, we're standing in the suite. It is spacious—sitting area with a couch, desk, minibar. Large windows overlooking the city. Everything professional and appropriate.
Except for the bedroom.
One bed. King-sized, expensive linens, perfectly made. Mocking us with its singular existence.
We both stare at it like it might bite. Or worse—like it might be exactly what some traitorous part of us wants.
"I'll take the couch." The offer comes automatically. Practiced chivalry that feels hollow.
"Don't be ridiculous. You're six-two. The couch will destroy your back." She's already moving toward the bedroom, rolling her suitcase with determined efficiency. "We can share. Stay on our respective sides."
The casual way she says it—like this isn't the most dangerous proximity we've allowed since I held her hand while Aria slept between us—makes my pulse spike.
"Serena—"
"It's a bed, Caspian. Not a commitment." She disappears into the bathroom with her toiletry bag, ending the discussion.
I stand in the sitting area, listening to the water run, and try to talk my body down from the ledge it's climbing. This is professional. Necessary. The adult solution to a logistical problem.
Except I can smell her perfume lingering in the space she just occupied. Can hear her moving behind the bathroom door. Can picture, with agonizing clarity, what it will be like to lie two feet away from her in the darkness.
To want and not take. To remember and not repeat.
My phone buzzes. Sebastian: How's Boston?
Me: Complicated.
Sebastian: Aren't you always.
I pocket the phone without responding. Walk to the window and try to focus on the city lights instead of the way my hands are shaking.
I've slept beside her once. Seven years ago in a dorm room that smelled like cheap champagne and reckless decisions. Woke up with her curled against me, looking peaceful in ways she never did awake, and panicked so thoroughly I destroyed both our lives.
The bathroom door opens. She emerges in sleep clothes—soft pants and a t-shirt that's seen better days. Her face is scrubbed clean, hair damp from washing, and she looks younger. Softer. Like the girl from Columbia who could destroy me with a single argument.
"Bathroom's yours." She climbs into bed without ceremony, choosing the side farthest from the door. Practical. Creating maximum distance.
I take my time in the bathroom. Brush my teeth twice. Consider calling down for extra blankets to build a barrier between us. Recognize that as the cowardice it is.
When I emerge, she's already under the covers, back to me, breathing carefully even.
Pretending to sleep. I know her well enough to recognize the performance.
I turn off the lights. The darkness makes everything worse. More intimate. The sound of her breathing fills the space between us.
I climb into bed, staying as close to my edge as physically possible. The mattress is large enough that we're not touching. Not even close. But I feel her anyway. The heat of her body. The slight depression in the mattress from her weight. The way she shifts slightly, adjusting to my presence.
"Goodnight," she whispers into the darkness.
"Goodnight."
Two words. Simple. Meaningless.
Except they're not. They're an acknowledgment that we're here, in this bed, with seven years of history and a daughter and desire so thick I can taste it.
I lie awake and count her breaths. Wonder if she's counting mine. Try not to think about how easy it would be to close the distance. To touch her. To whisper the truth I've been carrying: that leaving her was the biggest mistake of my life, and every day since has been practice in living with consequences.
The want is a physical ache. Not just sexual—though that's there, constant and demanding. But something deeper. The want to curl around her. To know what it's like to fall asleep beside her when neither of us is drunk or panicked. To wake up and see her face first thing, no fear of regret in her eyes.
To stay.
She shifts again. Her breathing changes rhythm. And I realize with devastating certainty that she's as awake as I am.
That we're both lying here. Two feet apart. Pretending we don't want exactly the same thing.