The Wall I Built

I meant it when I said sleep well.

I didn't plan on waiting for an invitation. I didn't plan on standing there like a fool outside her door, hoping she'd change her mind. But I lingered a second too long, searching her face. The soft lighting from the hallway painted golden shadows across her cheekbones. She stood there in that satin robe like temptation itself.

And yet, I walked away.

Because it was safer.

Back in my room, I leaned against the door for a beat, exhaling a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. My heart still thudded against my ribs, echoing the weight of a moment that nearly shifted everything between us. She had looked like she wanted me to stay. Or maybe I was reading into things again.

I moved across the room and opened the window slightly. The cool night air spilled in, brushing against my skin, a contrast to the heat I felt when I stood close to her.

Sleep felt impossible.

I lay down, staring at the ceiling. My mind raced with images of her—barefoot in the hallway, her voice low and careful, the way her eyes watched me like she saw through everything I tried to hide.

I'd never met someone who disarmed me so effortlessly.

We were supposed to be a team for appearances, a marriage for business alignment. Not this. Not stolen glances and uncertain silences that felt louder than arguments. Not this restless ache when she wasn't near.

I pushed myself up from the bed and walked into the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. The reflection that stared back at me in the mirror looked tired. Conflicted.

"What the hell are you doing, Blake?" I murmured.

Falling for her wasn't part of the plan. I'd built my entire life on control, on keeping everything—and everyone—at a distance. Love had always been a luxury I couldn't afford. Especially not after watching my mother fall apart when we lost my father. She'd loved him with everything she had, and when he was gone, so was a piece of her.

I couldn't do that to myself. Couldn't let anyone in that deeply. Not even Celine.

Especially not Celine.

Because she wasn't just a woman. She was my wife—on paper. My business equal. My rival. My match.

And that terrified me.

I returned to the bed and grabbed my phone, thumb hovering over her contact. I typed out a message, then erased it.

What would I even say?

"I wish I'd stayed?"

Too vulnerable.

"You looked beautiful tonight?"

Too personal.

I sighed and tossed the phone onto the nightstand. I needed space—from her, from my feelings, from the lines that kept blurring between what was real and what was expected of us.

But the image of her lingered.

The way her voice softened when she said my name.

The way she looked at me when she thought I wasn't paying attention.

I closed my eyes and let my mind drift, but every time it did, it drifted to her. I remembered how she had smiled when we cooked together. How she'd leaned into our kiss at the campaign shoot. The brief spark of joy on her face during the trip to Las Veritas. It wasn't just chemistry—it was something deeper. And more dangerous.

I sat up again and grabbed my sketchpad from the drawer.

It was a habit I never told anyone about—drawing. I wasn't an artist, but sketching calmed my mind. Tonight, I let the pencil glide across the page, not even sure what I was creating until her face started forming on the paper.

It was her eyes first—sharp but soft, always searching.

Then her mouth—curved in a half smile that held secrets.

Then her hair—loose, flowing, a cascade of black waves I'd dreamt about touching.

When I finished, I stared at the page. It wasn't perfect, but it captured something. Something about her that I couldn't say out loud. Maybe I didn't have to. Maybe I'd keep it to myself, a secret sketch of the woman who had somehow unraveled the knots inside me.

I slipped the sketch into a folder, tucked it away in the drawer, and finally turned off the lights.

The city lights filtered through the curtains, casting faint golden lines across the floor. I listened to the hum of traffic, the occasional horn in the distance, the familiar rhythm of the night.

But none of it lulled me to sleep.

Because every time I closed my eyes, I saw her.

I imagined what it would have been like to stay.

To kiss her goodnight and mean it.

To lie beside her and listen to her breathing until I drifted off.

And the thought scared me more than any boardroom confrontation ever could.

Because I wanted it.

Badly.

But wanting her wasn't enough.

Not when I was still too scared to let her in.