Bea’s POV
The traffic light turned green, and the silence between us pressed against the windows like fog. I shifted in my seat, fingers curled in my lap, eyes fixed on the blur of city lights bleeding past the glass. Each red glow, each passing shadow, gave me an excuse not to look at him. But I could still feel him.
His hands gripped the steering wheel like it was holding him back. Knuckles white. Jaw clenched. Not a glance in my direction. His eyes stayed on the road with the kind of focus people used to escape something rather than reach somewhere.
I swallowed hard, the ghost of his kiss still lingering on my lips like a secret I wasn’t supposed to remember. My chest tightened. I glanced sideways, once, twice, hoping to catch a flicker—an emotion, a thought, anything that would anchor me to him again. But he was stone. Ice sculpted in the shape of a man who hadn’t just kissed me like I was the only thing that had ever made sense.
The leather seat creaked beneath me when I shifted again. My knees faced the dashboard. My heart faced him.
I opened my mouth, then closed it. The words tangled in my throat, too soft to matter, too loud to risk. Should I say I was sorry? Should I demand why he kissed me if he still loathed me? Should I ask if he felt it too?
The SUV purred beneath us like a secret engine of restraint, moving too fast for comfort, too slow for escape. I pressed my palm to the side of my thigh, grounding myself as the memory of his hand at the back of my neck flared behind my eyes. The way he’d pulled me in. The way I’d let him.
It hadn’t felt like rebellion. Or weakness. It had felt inevitable. Like gravity. Like the moment we’d been circling for months had finally opened its jaws and swallowed us whole.
But now?
Now, he looked like he was dragging that kiss into a shallow grave and covering it with every ounce of indifference he could muster.
And still, I kept looking at him. Hoping he’d flinch. Speak. Breathe differently. Anything to prove I hadn’t imagined it. Anything to prove we weren’t strangers again.
When he pulled up in front of my building, the engine idled for a beat too long. The quiet stretched thin between us, vibrating with all the words neither of us had the guts to say. Finally, he turned his head just enough to look at me, his voice low, clipped, almost cold.
“Don’t read into it,” he said.
I blinked. “What?”
“That kiss,” he said, like it tasted bad in his mouth. “It was just a mistake. It’s just the wine.”
I felt something in my chest go still. “Right,” I said, too quickly. “Of course.”
He looked away first. I opened the door, my fingers numb on the handle, and stepped out into the cool night. I didn’t slam the door. I didn’t say goodbye. I just walked up the steps to my apartment without turning around, holding myself like if I let go, I might unravel right there on the sidewalk.
Sleep didn’t just avoid me that night—it mocked me. I lay flat on my back, staring at the ceiling like it might offer a reason. The fan above spun in lazy circles, humming like it was bored with my heartbreak.
“I’m fine,” I whispered to no one, just to hear something besides the pounding in my chest. My voice sounded fake even to me.
But my brain didn’t care. It just hit replay. Again. And again. The kiss. His hand on the back of my neck. The way his mouth claimed mine like it meant something. And then—his words.
“It didn’t mean anything.”
I let out a soft laugh, bitter and low. “Sure, Julian. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
It shouldn’t hurt this much. We weren’t a thing. There were no promises. No labels. Just tension and fire and that one kiss that wrecked everything.
But it still hurt.
Because some part of me, some stupid, hopeful part, had wanted to believe. That maybe he was the exception. That maybe, for once, the guy who looked like marble could feel like flesh.
Julian Wolfe wasn’t built for softness. He was all sharp lines and cold stares. A man made to be admired from a distance, not held. And yet…
I closed my eyes and whispered, “You could’ve been different.”
The morning sun felt like an insult.
I got to the office early, hoping to disappear into my desk. If I could just keep my head down long enough, maybe I’d make it through the day without breaking into a million glittering pieces. I sorted files like my life depended on it. Paper became armor. Focus became survival.
At 9:03, I heard the faint click of his office door.
My stomach coiled. I didn’t look up. I didn’t dare.
But I could feel him. His presence always walked in before he did. And still… nothing. No “Good morning.” No glance. Just the sound of his polished shoes hitting tile as he walked right past me like I was a chair. A coat rack.
The door shut behind him with a soft finality.
I blinked. Once. Twice. Just to push the sting back where it came from.
“That’s how we’re playing it,” I murmured. “Okay.”
By mid-morning, I had just started organizing contracts when the door creaked open again. My head shot up without thinking.
My breath caught—and then dropped.
Not him. Her.
She stepped out like she belonged in a music video. Legs like runway lights. Skin like money. Lips a perfect red—except for the faint smudge at the corner.
She adjusted her designer dress, checked her reflection in the glass wall, and reapplied lipstick with a satisfied little smirk.
The kind of smirk that said, He wanted me. And I let him.
I stared. Not blinking. Not breathing. She didn’t look at me. Or maybe she did and just… didn’t care.
The elevator doors slid open. She stepped inside, cool as ice, and disappeared.
I stared at the manila folder in my hands, gripping it until my knuckles ached.
It wasn’t rage. It was something quieter. Something meaner. Something that whispered, You’re fat, you will never be his type.
And I whispered right back, “Guess I just needed the reminder.”