Chapter Seven

Ralph jerked up in bed, breath shallow, sweat dampening his chest despite the cold that curled around the edges of the room. The headache stabbed behind his eyes like a reminder, one more punishment for a memory that refused to die.

Not again. The same dream.

He ran a hand through his hair and sat at the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the floor. The room was dark except for the faint amber glow of the streetlight outside bleeding through the curtains. He could still hear her voice. That little girl's voice. Just as soft. Just as real.

"Don't cry... I'll help you. You're safe now."

His jaw clenched, hands called into fists at his knees. How could a voice from that long ago still feel so close?

He had to have been ten. Maybe eleven. His memory of that day was a haze of terror and cold and pain, but her—her—she had been clear. A small girl, no older than he was, with wide, scared eyes and trembling fingers. He had been lying in that dirty alley behind the warehouse, bleeding from the cut on his arm after running from those boys, hiding like a stray dog. And she had come—out of nowhere.

He hadn't even known her name.

But she had stayed. She had pressed her little scarf to his wound, told him to stay still, and sat there beside him in the dark, humming something under her breath. He remembered how her hands shook—but she never left him.

Then the sirens came. Someone must've called for help. And just like that, she was gone.

Gone before he could ask who she was, where she lived—anything. He never forgot her face.

He'd gone back years later. When he was older, stronger, rich enough to tear the entire street apart if he had to. But the buildings were different. Some torn down, some rebuilt. No one remembered the incident. No one remembered a little girl helping a bleeding boy.

It made him feel insane sometimes—searching for a shadow. But he knew she was real. Because he still dreamed of her. Still woke up with her voice echoing in his ears like a promise.

He lowered his head into his palms, breathing hard.

Why did this keep happening now?. Why, after all these years, did it feel like she was close again?

And then he remembered... the bracelet.

The only thing he had given her before she disappeared.

A small, hand-woven leather bracelet he had once made at summer camp, clumsily tied around her wrist with the words "You're my hero" carved into a tiny wooden bead.

If he ever saw that bracelet again—he would know. He would know it was her.

He got up, showered, suited up in silence. Another day to bury the past.

By the time he arrived at Lauren Enterprises, the air was thick with office buzz. He didn't greet anyone. He never did. His presence was enough to silence the gossip Cadence was whispering into Alison's ear by the reception desk.

"Here he comes," Cadence muttered quickly, turning to her screen. Alison straightened, heart skipping. He didn't look at her. Just walked past, cold as ever, suit crisp, jaw set, eyes unreadable. No trace of that night. No hint of anything.

Alison bit her lip, turning back to her screen, pretending she wasn't burning with questions. Pretending her heart wasn't stupid enough to notice he smelled like expensive aftershave and rain.

He barely sat before his phone rang. His tone was clipped. "Yes. I see… Alright, send the file… Understood."

He dropped the phone and pressed the intercom button. "Alison. My office. Now."

Her breath hitched. She stood quickly, heels clicking as she walked in, shutting the door behind her. He didn't look up.

"There's a conference in Cape Town," he said, flipping through a document. "You'll accompany me."

She blinked. "Sir… me?"

"Is there another Alison here?" he said dryly.

She swallowed. "When?"

"Tomorrow morning." He finally looked up, eyes sharp, unreadable. "Pack something decent. We'll be staying two nights."

Her heart twisted. Two nights? Alone with him again? After he'd acted like nothing happened?

"That'll be all."

Dismissed. Just like that. Like he didn't once moan her name in the dark. Like he didn't taste every inch of her like she was the air he needed to survive.

She turned and walked out quietly, head spinning.

Behind his desk, Ralph exhaled once—deep and low. He didn't know what the hell he was doing anymore.

Alison tugged her small suitcase from under the bed, dropped it open, and stared at it like it held all the answers she didn't have. Her room was quiet—too quiet—until Michelle walked in with a steaming mug of cocoa and a raised brow.

"Tell me why you're packing like someone going for a honeymoon with their boss."

Alison rolled her eyes. "It's a business trip."

Michelle dropped the mug on the bedside table, plopped down beside her. "Uh-huh. A business trip that requires your heart beating that fast?"

"I'm just nervous," Alison mumbled, folding a blouse. "Cape Town is big. It's important."

Michelle grinned. "Is it Cape Town that's making your ears red or the man you're going with?"

Alison stopped folding. "Michelle…"

"Oh, come on. Ever since that night you stumbled in looking like you just walked out of a romance movie—hair messy, lips bruised, eyes glassy—you've been acting weird. What happened between you two?"

"Nothing happened."

"You expect me to believe that?"

Alison sighed and sat back on the bed, fingers tangled in the hem of her shirt. "He's my boss. That's all."

Michelle studied her quietly for a second, her teasing tone softening. "Is that what you're going to keep telling yourself?"

Alison looked away. "It has to be."

There was silence for a moment. Then Michelle chuckled. "Well, don't pack that ugly brown dress. If you're gonna lie to yourself, at least do it looking hot."

Alison cracked a smile despite herself. "You're impossible."

Michelle stood and winked. "So is pretending you're not falling."

The door shut gently behind her, leaving Alison alone with her clothes, her thoughts… and a suitcase that suddenly felt heavier than it looked.

The night had fallen heavy. Outside the window, the city buzzed in low murmurs, headlights sweeping shadows across the wall. But Alison lay still in bed, tangled in her sheets, her eyes open to the dark.

She had turned off the lamp an hour ago. Or maybe two. But sleep wouldn't come. Not when her mind kept circling back to that kiss. That moment in his car. The rain. His fingers curling into her skin like he couldn't help himself. The heat of his mouth. The way he whispered her name like he'd been holding it in for years.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Her throat ached. Her chest did too. He hadn't mentioned it since. Hadn't even looked at her the same. As if it never happened.

Her hand slid under the blanket, brushing against her neck, where his breath had lingered that night. She could still feel it. Still taste him.

Her fingers drifted lower, pressing lightly over the lace of her nightwear, pausing where his lips had once rested. And then lower... to the ache he left behind.

She let out a quiet breath.

This wasn't supposed to happen. She wasn't supposed to want this. Not from him. Not again. He was cold. Distant. And still, the memory of him set her body on fire.

She turned onto her side, pressing her thighs together, willing the heat to disappear. But it didn't. It only grew, pulsing between her legs, shameful and sharp.

She hated that one kiss had done this to her. Hated that her body remembered everything his hands had touched.

A tear slipped down the side of her face. She didn't know if it was from frustration or longing. Maybe both.

She hugged the pillow closer and whispered into the dark.

"I'll keep it professional."

Even though she already knew it was too late.

The apartment was silent, except for the low hum of the AC and the faint ticking of the antique clock on the wall. Ralph stood by the window, shirtless, a glass of untouched scotch in one hand, eyes fixed on the blur of city lights.

His phone lit up on the table.

Jane.

He let it ring for a second before answering, voice rough from silence. "Hello."

"Ralphie," came the soft, cheerful voice from the other end. "Hope I didn't catch you at a bad time?"

He didn't answer right away. "It's fine."

"I just wanted to say goodnight… and also, um, I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner tomorrow. Just us. No pressure."

There was a pause. He watched his reflection in the glass, face blank. He used to recognize the man in the mirror. Now, he wasn't so sure.

"I have a trip," he said simply.

"Oh." Her voice dipped. "Business?"

"Yes. Early flight."

"Okay. When you come back then?"

"Goodnight, Jane." He ended the call before she could respond.

He dropped the phone on the table and downed the scotch in one sharp gulp. It burned his throat, but not enough to numb the ache clawing at his chest.

He rubbed the back of his neck, then dragged a hand over his face and sat on the edge of the bed. His body was tired. His mind wasn't.

It kept replaying the same image—Alison, pressed against the car door, breathless under his touch. The taste of her. The way she gasped his name like it meant something.

He shouldn't have kissed her. Shouldn't have touched her. But God, he had wanted to. Still wanted to.

His fists clenched at his sides.

He didn't understand what it was about her that got under his skin. She was stubborn, proud, reckless—and yet, the only person whose presence could unsettle him this much.

He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

He used to dream of someone else. A girl from long ago, with the softest hands and a kindness that once saved his life.

But lately… he couldn't see her face anymore.

Only Alison's.

He turned to his side, jaw tight, eyes burning. Sleep didn't come. And the ache didn't leave.

Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting pale golden streaks across the room. Alison stood by the mirror, slipping on a white blouse tucked into tailored pants, her fingers a little shaky around the buttons.

Behind her, Michelle lay sprawled on the bed, one leg hanging off the side, her hair wild from sleep. "You've been quiet since last night," she murmured, her voice thick. "Don't tell me it's that devil of a boss again."

Alison didn't answer right away. She reached for her perfume, gave herself a light spritz, then exhaled slowly. "He's not the problem."

Michelle's brows lifted, even in her drowsy state. "Oh? So you are the problem now?"

A tiny smile tugged at Alison's lips. "I'm just trying to focus."

"Focus," Michelle repeated, sitting up and pushing her hair back. "You say that like you didn't come home looking like you'd either kissed a ghost or buried your soul."

Alison rolled her eyes but said nothing.

Michelle narrowed hers. "I'm serious, babe. You've been tense lately. And now you're going on a trip with him? Should I start praying?"

Alison paused at the edge of the bed to fasten her heels. "Don't make a big deal out of it. It's work. I'm his assistant. He gave me a ticket. That's all."

Michelle flopped dramatically back onto the bed. "God, why can't I get a boss who sends me to exotic places instead of yelling when I sneeze?"

Alison grabbed her bag, lips twitching. "You'd flirt your way into a lawsuit."

Michelle grinned. "And you? You'd pretend like you're not burning up inside while you sit beside him on the plane."

Alison glanced at her reflection again, heart tightening. "That's not going to happen."

"Whatever you say, Miss CEO's secret fantasy."

There was a knock at the door.

"Taxi's here," Alison said softly, glancing one last time at her wristwatch.

Michelle climbed out of bed and walked her to the door, then pulled her into a quick hug. "Be safe. And... don't let him mess with your head."

Alison hesitated before hugging her back. "I won't." But deep inside, she wasn't sure.

The tinted car rolled to a slow stop in front of a sleek private terminal, far from the noise of commercial flights. Alison stepped out, pulling her coat tighter around her body, her heels clicking softly against the smooth floor of the hangar. The air smelled like jet fuel and silence.

A few feet away, a uniformed pilot stood near the stairs of a white jet, clipboard in hand. He noticed her approach and gave a courteous nod.

"Miss Alison Grant?" he asked, voice crisp, professional.

"Yes," she replied, her voice calm, but her heart was already thudding like a drum in her chest.

"Mr. Lauren is already onboard," the pilot informed her, gesturing toward the stairs. "He requested no delays."

Of course, he did.

Alison gave a tight smile and nodded. "Thank you."

Each step she took up the metallic stairs echoed. With every inch closer, her spine straightened. She wouldn't let him see her flinch. Not today.

She stepped into the jet's luxurious cabin—sleek leather seats, mahogany paneling, the soft hum of quiet power. Her eyes landed on him immediately.

Ralph Lauren sat by the window, dressed in a tailored black suit, legs crossed, phone in hand. His expression unreadable. Cold. He didn't look up.

Not even once.

Alison stood still for a beat, the silence deafening. Then she walked past him and took her assigned seat across the aisle. She didn't speak. Neither did he.

The engines began to rumble softly. The jet started taxiing.

She glanced out the window, pretending the air didn't feel tight, pretending his presence didn't press against her skin like heat. Her fingers curled slightly on her lap.

Still nothing from him.

No eye contact. No words. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

As if the night they shared in the rain never existed.

As if her body hadn't burned under his hands. As if she were invisible.

Her chest ached, but her face stayed calm.

A flight attendant appeared briefly, offering drinks. Alison refused with a shake of her head. Ralph didn't even bother to respond.

And then, finally, mid-flight—he spoke.

"I hope you brought the documents for the Madrid pitch," his voice was low, indifferent.

Alison didn't look at him. "They're in my bag. I triple-checked."

"Good," was all he said.

No "thank you." No warmth. Just business.

She swallowed hard and turned slightly toward the window again. But inside, something was unraveling. If he could forget so easily… maybe she should too.

The jet hummed with soft engine noise, and the glow of the evening sky spilled through the window. Ralph sat by the aisle, one hand resting on his knee, the other curled loosely under his chin. Across from him, Alison leaned back, arms folded, eyes trained on nothing in particular.

Neither of them said a word.

She adjusted her legs, but his gaze never moved from the dark clouds outside. There was something too casual in his posture, like he was forcing himself not to notice her. Like she wasn't sitting there, just a few feet away, wearing the same perfume that still haunted his dreams.

She hated how aware of him she was. The rise and fall of his chest. The way his fingers tapped once on his thigh, then stopped. The fact that he hadn't even looked at her since she got on board. He was ignoring her.

And it burned more than she expected.

Alison shifted again, this time deliberately brushing her arm against the cushion near his. He still didn't flinch.

Coward.

She clenched her jaw, forcing her eyes shut, trying not to let it show. She wasn't going to speak first. She wasn't going to ask why he touched her like that, then acted like it meant nothing. If this was his game, then she'd play colder.

Across the aisle, Ralph's eyes flicked toward her—not quite turning his head. Just a glance. Long enough to make his stomach tighten. She looked like she hadn't slept. And maybe she hadn't.

He didn't know what he was doing anymore.

Before he could stop himself, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He reached for it like a lifeline.

Jane.

> Just wanted to say good luck on your trip. Hope we can talk when you're back. Dinner?

He didn't reply. Just stared at the message, thumb hovering. Then he tucked the phone away and leaned back, jaw tightening.

And for the rest of the flight, he never looked her way again.