Chapter 7

Remy's POV

Callum came back an hour or two later with a few pieces of clothing I could borrow. Then he apologized for not being able to take me home himself but assigned his driver to do so which got me wondering if that was his real self or he had other reasons to be nice to me aside from me being a victim of his situation.

Of course he couldn't face me. Not after what we shared.

The moment the penthouse elevator doors closed behind me, I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. My side ached, a sharp, insistent throb that made every step feel like a fight. The painkillers Callum's doctor had given me were wearing off, leaving behind a dull, relentless burn.

Miguel, Callum's driver, stood waiting by the car, his expression unreadable. He opened the door without a word, his dark eyes flicking to my bandages before looking away. I didn't ask how much he knew. I didn't want to know.

"Where to?" he asked.

"Noir diner," I said.

He didn't argue. Just closed the door behind me and slid into the driver's seat.

The car smelled like leather and something faintly antiseptic. Cleaned up after he brought me in. I leaned back, closing my eyes, but all I could see was Callum's face right before he kissed me. The way his jaw had tensed, like he was fighting himself. The heat of his mouth, sudden and demanding.

I shouldn't have kissed him back. He was definitely straight. He didn't feel the same thing I felt for him. He didn't know I hadn't been able to get him off my mind since our first meeting.

But I did. I kissed him back like my soul depended on it. And now I didn't know what the hell that meant. I shut my eyes hard. This wasn't happening.

The car slowed, pulling up to the curb outside 'Noir'. The diner's neon sign flickered, casting a red glow over the sidewalk. The sight of it should have settled me. This was mine. My place. My control.

But nothing felt normal anymore.

Miguel didn't follow me inside.

The second I stepped inside, the noise hit me like a wall.

"Remy!"

Eloise, my head waitress, was the first to reach me. Her hands fluttered over my arms, my face, like she was checking for damage.

Pain clawed at my side as I stood while she assessed me.

"Oh my god, where have you been? We've been calling you for hours! The police were here—they said there was a shooting—Are you okay? What happened?"

My staff swarmed me, their voices overlapping, hands reaching out like they weren't sure if I was real. Marco, my head chef, gripped my shoulder hard enough to make me wince.

"Easy," I muttered, pulling away.

His eyes dropped to my side, where the bandages were hidden under my shirt. "The hell happened to you?"

"I'm fine," I said, stepping back before he could accidentally brush my injured side. "Just a graze."

The words came out flat. Too blunt. Their faces paled.

"A 'graze'?" Marco, my line cook, shoved through the crowd, his apron streaked with grease. "You disappeared with some suit, and now you're back with a fucking 'bullet wound'?"

"It's handled," I said.

"Handled?" Eloise's voice pitched higher. "Remy, someone 'shot' you. That's not 'handled'. Do you know who–why–"

"Not here," I cut in. I didn't have the energy for this. Not now. "Is the diner okay?"

Marco exhaled sharply. "Cops came. Took statements. Boarded up the broken door. We've been closed since it happened."

I nodded, already moving toward the back office. I needed to think. To breathe. My legs were on the verge of giving out on me.

But they followed.

"Remy, you can't just drop that you got shot and walk away," Marco snapped.

"I don't have answers," I said, sharper than I meant to. "Someone took a shot. I got hit. That's it."

"That's it?" Naima's voice rose. "You disappear for two days, show up looking like death, and that's all you're giving us?"

I didn't answer. My head was pounding. I needed my phone. I needed to know if anyone had tried to contact me. If my sister had called.

"I need my phone," I said. "Has anyone seen it?"

Blank stares.

"You didn't have it when you left," Eloise said.

"I know. But it wasn't on me when I—" 'When I woke up in Callum's penthouse.' I cut myself off. "Just check the office. The kitchen. Everywhere."

They scattered, muttering.

I moved toward the bar, gripping the edge to steady myself. My reflection in the mirror behind the liquor bottles looked hollow. Dark circles under my eyes. Hair a mess. The borrowed sweater I wore—Callum's, no doubt, hung loose on my frame.

The sweater smelt like him. Expensive wool and sandalwood. I should have torn it off. Instead, I pulled the sleeves down my wrist.

Pathetic.

"Nothing," Marco said, reappearing. "Not in the office, not in the back. Are you sure you didn't drop it outside?"

"Positive."

Eloise bit her lip. "The police took photos of the scene. Maybe they have it?"

My stomach dropped. That wasn't possible. I always had it on me. Always. Unless someone took it.

Doubtful it was the police. Either the shooter had taken it—or worse, Callum—it wasn't sitting in some evidence locker.

"Forget it," I said. "I'll get a new one."

"You gonna tell us what really happened?" Naima crossed her arms. "or are we just pretending a public shooting didn't involve our boss?"

The weight of their stares pressed in. They deserved answers. But how much could I say without dragging them into whatever mess Callum was in?

"Some guy tried to kill Callum Kesington," I said finally. "I got caught in the crossfire."

Eloise paled. "'The Callum Kesington?' The billionaire?"

"Yeah."

"And he just… what? Took you home?"

My jaw tightened. 'Home' wasn't the word I'd use. "He had a doctor patch me up."

Marco's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

Because I was leverage. Because he felt guilty. Because for some insane reason, he couldn't stop looking at me like—

"I don't know," I lied.

The bell over the door chimed again. Every muscle in my body locked. But it wasn't Callum. Just a couple of regulars, their conversation dying as they took in the tense scene.

Eloise forced a smile. "We should open. People are waiting."

Marco didn't move. "You're not staying, are you?"

I should. This was my place. My responsibility. But the thought of putting on an apron, smiling at customers, pretending everything was normal—

"Not today," I said.

Miguel was still outside, leaning against the car, scrolling through his phone. He straightened when he saw me.

"Change of plans?" he asked.

"Yes." I yanked the car door open. "Your boss's office"

The ride back was silent.

Miguel didn't ask questions. Didn't speak. Just drove, his grip tight on the wheel.

I stared out the window, my mind racing.

No phone. No way to call my sister. No way to know if she was safe.

And Callum—

I didn't even know what to think about Callum.

The kiss we shared played on a loop in my head. The way he'd looked at me after, like he wasn't sure if he regretted it or wanted to do it again.

But I wasn't sure if I wanted to find out. I knew I wasn't done with Callum Kesington. Not yet. And whether I wanted to or not, I had a feeling he wasn't done with me either.

The car pulled into the underground garage of Callum's building. Miguel parked, then turned to me. "He should be upstairs."

The elevator ride up was too long. Too quiet. My side ached with every breath.

When the doors opened, Callum was there.

He stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to me, shoulders tense. The city lights stretched out behind him, a glittering map of everything he owned. Everything he controlled.

Including me, right now.

He turned slowly. His eyes locked onto mine, dark and unreadable.

"Good timing." He said, his voice laced with rage. "Are you going to start explaining to me who the hell you work for or you want me to force it out of you?"