Neither of them spoke because speaking would make it real and what it was…whatthiswas still too fragile.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered finally, pressing his lips to her hair. Sabine didn’t answer right away because this wasn’t about sorry. This was about release. About history. About need and ache and a version of love that never learned how to stay between them properly.
“This doesn’t fix everything,” she said quietly.
“I know.”
“And I don’t know what this means.”
“I don’t either.”
Silence again.
But not cold.
Not awkward.
Sabine took a long breath and slowly sat up, drawing the sheet across her chest. She didn’t rush or scramble like someone who regretted what just happened. She moved like someone who knew exactly what she was doing.
Adair reached for her, but she gently caught his hand and brought it to her lips, kissing his knuckles once before setting it down.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“For what?” his brows knitting together.
“For giving me what I needed tonight. For holding me like that. For still seeing me.” She leaned in, kissed his cheek—slow and warm, but final. Then she stood and began gathering her clothes, her underthings. Not with shame. Not with hesitation. But with…confidence.
Adair sat up, watching her.
There was no anger in her. No dramatics. She looked back at him while slipping on her bottoms.
“I needed this,” she said. “But don’t mistake it for permission to come back into my life the way you left it.”
“I won’t,” he said, voice quiet.
“Good,” she nodded, heading for the door.
“Sabine,” he called out and she paused before turning toward him. “I meant everything I said.”
With a small smile, she responded, “then mean it still when I’m not in your bed.”
And with that, she left.
Not broken.
Not waiting.
Just…moving forward.
On her terms.
In her power.
SABINE
“Wait…say that again?” Sabine asked, pressing her palm to her forehead like it might somehow muffle the headache beginning to bloom. Her boss, Stephen Lewin, leaned back in his chair with the kind of practiced calm that only came from decades of navigating messy meetings and impossible timelines. He wasn’t being smug—just strategic. He always was. Which, ironically, was part of the reason she respected him.
“I said we’re moving forward with Grener to oversee the legal end of the new contracts for Pillar Grove,” he repeated evenly. “They’ve handled high-level procurement agreements for us before, and frankly, I trust them.”