He shrugged. “You underestimate your own value.”
This was so off-script I almost missed it.
“Is this supposed to be a pep talk?” I asked.
“Just an observation.”
He turned back to his laptop, but I caught him glancing over once, then again. Like he was checking for visible damage.
The rest of the flight passed awkwardly, but with an unspoken truce between us. When we landed, I waited for the others to disembark, then stood to grab my carry-on.
Gabriel blocked the aisle with a hand, gentle but firm. “We should talk.”
I shook my head. “We really shouldn’t.”
He let his hand drop, but the look on his face was, what? Regret? That seemed impossible. But it lingered, and I felt it, a hook behind my ribs.
I made it to the exit, down the steps, and into the cool night before he could follow.
I breathed deep, then checked my phone: fifteen unread emails, seven new feedback submissions, and one message from a blocked number.
It read: “If you want to win, start by acting like you already have.”
No signature, but I didn’t need one.
Somehow, that pissed me off less than I expected.
I squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, and started toward the terminal. Not running. Not hiding. Just ready for whatever came next.
Chapter Sixteen
Gabriel
The Mandarin Oriental lobby always made me feel underdressed. Above us, a fifteen-foot glass sculpture of ocean lilies hung weightless, casting fractal shadows across polished marble. I could’ve admired it, but my focus was on the woman beside me, who refused, for the first time in twenty-four hours, to meet my eye.
I led her to the elevator and gestured her in.
The bell dinged. Our suite was on 31. Eliza followed me, looking almost small in her black sheath dress with a hemline that thumbed its nose at decency and a see-through blouse that left me clenching my teeth.
“Here.” I held out her room keycard.
Her glance flicked to the gold-embossed sleeve and then to my hand. “You check in under Valor or under an alias?”
“Valor. I don’t believe in hiding.”
She snorted again, almost a laugh this time. “Says the guy who uses private browsing to Google his exes.”
That earned her a smirk. “You’re projecting.”
“I wish.” She palmed the card, stepped out at 31 with a stride that said “fuck you” in Morse code.
We found the suite, a corner double, panoramic harbor view. Extravagant, needed. She was dealing with the weight of the world, I wanted her to relax. I opened the door and followed her inside, preparing to warn her about decorum and tomorrow’s schedule.
And I froze.
Rose petals. Not sprinkled, not in some subtle “suggestion of romance” arrangement, but dumped like a delivery mishap all over the king-sized bed. Champagne, chilling in a hammered bucket. A plate of chocolate-dipped strawberries sweating under a silver cloche. Candles, for fuck’s sake. Dozens of them. And a discreetly folded card on the pillow: “Congratulations on Your New Life Together, Mr. & Mrs. Valor.”
For a second, I thought it might be a joke. Then I caught Eliza’s expression. I’d seen her face down a hostile board, but now her skin flushed, an undertone of genuine horror rising under her cheekbones. She looked from the bed to me, lips parted. Speechless.