SIX

The night air was a relief, the wind was cool against my skin, almost sharp with how clean it felt after hours under bright chandelier lights and fake smiles.

I stood just beyond the back terrace of the hotel, near a planter filled with manicured lavender. The faintest breeze tugged at the strands of my hair, lifting them free from the tightness of my bun.

With a quiet sigh, I ran my fingers through the knot, pulling it loose. My hair tumbled freely around my shoulders, and the pressure on my scalp finally eased.

A glass of sparkling water dangled from my fingers—my fifth of the night, I think. I wanted a drink, a real one. Something that would burn on the way down and maybe take the edge off.

But I'd driven here. And I knew better.

Behind me, the faint sound of laughter floated from the ballroom, followed by the muffled hum of some overly enthusiastic toast.

They never ran out of things to applaud, did they?

I stayed where I was. Let them clink glasses and chase headlines. Let them admire Nathan Reed's poise and polish.

Out here, I could admit it—I was exhausted. Not from the summit, not really.

From having to pretend like I wasn't.

From carrying a company that would have capsized the minute Marco hopped on a plane if I hadn't been there to steer it.

From faking calm when what I really wanted was to scream into a pillow until the seams split.

I took another sip and leaned against the cold iron railing. Just a few more minutes, then I'd leave. I'd had my moment. I'd made my point.

Then I felt it. A presence behind me. A shift in the air, the way you sense someone before you hear them.

I didn't turn around.

"Ms. Galveston," he called.

I didn't flinch. Just took another sip of my water and kept my eyes on the skyline. Let him come to me.

"You always make such an entrance," he added, voice smooth as ever. "That question back there? Very... bold. You nearly gave me a heart attack."

I finally turned, slowly. He was closer than I expected, hands tucked casually into his pockets, the kind of man who didn't just step into a room—he made it feel like his name was stitched into the drapes.

"Nathan Reed," I said evenly. "You survived it. Barely."

His mouth quirked, a glint of teeth and charm that had probably disarmed half the women in the room tonight.

"Barely," he echoed. "Though I have to say, I admire the precision. You aim to wound."

"I aim to expose."

"Same thing, isn't it? Depending on who's bleeding."

I held his gaze. "And you're bleeding?"

He stepped closer, not quite invading, but enough to test boundaries. "Not yet. But you do make it fun."

He was flirting. Of course he was.

Nathan Reed didn't know how to speak to a woman without lacing it with suggestion. It was practically his brand—alongside sensationalist headlines and sidestepping accountability with a smile.

It was an open secret: Nathan changed women like most people changed socks. Smiled, seduced, moved on. He probably didn't even remember their names.

My face stayed exactly the same. Unimpressed. Unmoved.

I took another sip. "You're used to being fawned over, aren't you?"

He laughed softly, genuine and a little intrigued. "You're not impressed."

"No," I said. "But I do respect your... commitment to the performance."

Something flickered in his eyes. That was new. Surprise.

He'd expected a blush. A nervous laugh. Maybe a stumble in my voice. Instead, I stood steady, the same way I had during my question. Calm. Clear. Direct.

Nathan tilted his head, studying me like I was an article he didn't quite know how to dissect yet. "Tell me something," he said, voice lower now. "Do you always come out swinging, or did I just get lucky?"

I smiled, dry and sharp. "You got noticed. Don't push it."

He glanced down, the corner of his mouth twitching. Not quite defeat. But something close to... amusement. Maybe even interest.

Nathan let the silence stretch a second too long, as if trying to recalibrate.

Then, "You're not like the others."

"I get that a lot," I replied.

He smiled again, slower this time. "I bet you do."

Just then, the click of heels broke the moment.

"Mr. Reed," a voice called behind him. Crisp, efficient.

A woman in a tailored navy dress, tablet in hand, earpiece clipped just so. His assistant, obviously.

She didn't glance at me.

"They're waiting for you at the press table. Questions about the exposé."

Nathan sighed lightly, then looked at me one last time. "Duty calls."

"Don't keep the people waiting," I said, already turning back to the city lights.

He paused for half a second longer. Then he was gone, the sound of his footsteps fading into the hum of the night.

I let out a breath, grateful for the sudden emptiness beside me. The night air was cooler now, settling softly against my skin.

My phone buzzed.

I almost ignored it—probably a newsroom ping or some late night update or Clarissa's reminder to review some file.

But it wasn't.

A message. From a foreign number.

'I'm packing.'

I froze.

Then I read it again.

And again.

It took a full two seconds for the words to hit—and when they did, I nearly dropped my phone.

A laugh burst out of me. One sharp, stunned sound before the rest came pouring out like floodgates had been flung open. I laughed again. Then laughed harder.

Not because it was funny.

Because thank God.

Mario was coming back.

Which meant: I wouldn't have to carry the whole damn company on my back anymore. The sleepless nights, the decisions, the press firestorms, the budget meetings, the people—God, the people.

I leaned forward, phone still in hand, and let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

A thousand little weights pressed into my chest finally lifted. I didn't even know which one hit hardest—the exhaustion, the loneliness, the quiet dread of messing everything up. All I knew was:

I wasn't alone in this anymore.

I wiped under my eye quickly. No tears came, not yet, but the heat was there. That tightness in the throat. The kind that meant your body was tired of pretending to be fine.

I texted back one word:

Hurry!

And for the first time in weeks—though it felt like decades—I let my shoulders drop.

I never knew two words could mean so much to me.

•••