I amnotgoing to him.
City lights blur past the windows as I stare at my clutch, my pulse increasing, my torment accumulating. Every logical argument of why I can’t see him wrestles with the emotional pleading of my nervous system screaming for me to do the opposite.
But nothing has changed.
He’s still Raffael Cavallo—son of a monster who bound my father with financial and blood debts, brother to the asshole who abducted and imprisoned me. And the only person I’ve never felt the need to prove myself to.
The one highly successful and excessively formidable man who—long before this nightmare began—never made me feel small.
I pick at the quick on my thumb, digging my nail deep, attempting to alleviate the building pressure.
Ihaveto go home.
Ineedto maintain distance.
Caving isn’t optional.
Each turned corner and pause in traffic increases the torture, the city conspiring against me with every red light until the driver pulls up outside my building.
I glance outside, my eyes catching on the dark windows of my apartment, the cavernous ache of stepping inside already setting in.
“Miss?” the driver asks. “You getting out?”
My hand closes around the door handle. I hesitate. Tense.
God-fucking-dammit.
“No.” I meet the driver’s confused stare. “Please take me to Midtown.”
Desperation must be written across my face because he doesn’t question the change in plan, just pulls from the curb while my heart thunders in my ears.
I’m a wreck by the time we reach the familiar high-rise home to the Cavallo Group office, already bracing for the regret that will follow my stupid decision to hear what Raffael has to say.
I pay the driver, step onto the pavement, and focus on putting one foot in front of the other as I walk to the front doors.
The lobby is quiet, the polished marble gleaming under soft light. The night manager barely glances my way as I pass, recognition flickering in his expression, then indifference, as if I was expected. As if I belong here.
This is a meeting.
Business.
A renegotiation of a verbal contract necessary to maintain the functionality of his brother’s incarceration.
“Nothing more,” I whisper to myself.
I ride the elevator to Raffael’s floor.
The doors open to silence. The lights are on. The reception area is pristine. But the usually buzzing office feels more lifeless and eerily deserted than I anticipated.
My heels echo down the corridor, each step stirring memories forged into the space. Moments of confidence, confrontation, ambition, and desire.
I’ve walked this marble tile so many times. With purpose. Shoulders squared. I’ve walked it furious, determined, victorious.
But never like this.
Never with my pulse tripping over itself, my body acutely aware that I’m striding toward someone who has always known how to undo me.
The glass walls of the boardroom are frosted as I approach, the veil adding to my unease.