Page 17

I didn’t think she was going to respond to my text, especially at this time of night.

But she did. She also agreed to meet with me at a diner just around the corner from her father’s mansion.

This should mean something, perhaps. I thought she hated my guts and never wanted to see me ever again. Yet, she didn’t decline my invite.

Maybe her hatred for me didn’t eat as deeply as she made it seem. Whatever the case, a part of me was relieved that I still had access to her heart. At least that was what I hoped.

Clad in my favorite black suit, I sat in a booth by the large windows, one arm draped over the backrest, the other cradling a mug of cold black coffee. The diner was dimly lit, a crystal chandelier casting a warm, yellow glow over the space.

I glanced at my watch.

11:56.

These kids ought to be home by now, tucked in bed, sleeping or doing whatever it was teenagers did these days. But what did I know? I was just a middle-aged man, trying to make amends with a girl half my age at an ungodly hour.

“Refill?” A blonde waitress materialized beside me, her hair tied in a loose bun, eyes more tired than curious.

I traced her weary gaze to my mug and shook my head. “I’m good.”

She nodded, squeezed out a smile, and scribbled on her notepad before wandering off quietly.

The hum of an old jukebox played a low, bluesy melody, soothing the hour.

Again, I checked my watch, then shifted my gaze out the window.

The street was deserted, washed in shadows, broken only by the occasional blur of headlights passing through.

A street lamp flickered on the other side of the road, casting long, eerie shadows over the sidewalk.

I watched a thin mist curl low along the pavement like something alive, and now I was starting to regret asking her to come out by this time of night.

In my defense, I picked a place close to her father’s mansion. Besides, I was in desperate need to set eyes on her again as though my sanity depended on it.

She was running late. But then again, I didn’t expect her to be on time—not with the tension between us. If she wanted to, she could decide at the last minute not to show up. And there’d be nothing I could do about it.

So, I waited, listening to the steady ticking of the clock like it would somehow magically summon her.

The bells jingled, and the front door opened, drawing my attention away from the window.

There she stood, tall at the entrance, her striking hazel-brown eyes scanning the space. Her chestnut-red hair fell in effortless waves over her shoulders, her black jacket gleaming in the soft light. She spotted me after a short while, and something inside me coiled tighter.

The teenagers—all of them—turned in her direction and murmured amongst themselves. The boys checked her out, eyes roaming over her as if drinking in the shape of her body.

My eyes narrowed, brows furrowing as my fingers clenched into fists. If any of those underage boys tried anything stupid with her, they’d all leave this diner with at least two broken ribs and a broken arm. I wasn’t kidding.

Lucky for them, they shifted their attention back to the girls at their table.

Ayla was stunning. Polished. Put-together—almost too much for someone supposedly nursing a broken heart. She approached my table and slid into the booth across from me.

For the next few seconds, it was silent between us, and I hated myself for staring too long.

She stared back without even blinking, her eyes cold and hollow, devoid of emotion, as if something was dead in them.

Those eyes were no longer bright, and her presence didn’t flicker with the same hunger she used to have around me.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was dead to her.

I cleared my throat, snapping back to reality. “You look well.”

She hesitated, her shallow gaze fixed on me as if searching for something—closure, maybe. “Thanks.” Ayla looked away, eyes glancing around the interior.

Thanks? I thought, my brows rising by a fraction, a glint of disappointment flickering in my gaze. “How’ve you been?” I went ahead to ask, despite being displeased by her previous response.

“Good,” she said without looking at me.

My jaw tightened, hating the attitude and the fuckin’ cold shoulder. The conversation felt forced, and it was beginning to frustrate me. But I guess three months was a long time to stay away without a word.

Something was broken inside her. I could see it in her eyes, empty and shallow. This wasn’t the Ayla I knew. Fuck! I must have messed up big time.

“I’m not good with words,” I began, watching her look everywhere but at me. “I’m not the type to express my feelings or explain myself.” I paused, letting my words sink in for a moment. “You’re angry. I get it. I get it because I fucked up.”

Now, I got her attention.

She turned to look at me, her expression still blank and cold.

“That night at the club…the girl…” I continued, my voice low and even. “…that was a mistake. A costly one, from the look of things.”

Ayla’s throat wobbled as she slowed subtly, her eyes never leaving my face.

“If I had known better, I would have been more in control of myself,” I added.

Still no word. Just silence.

“You might find this hard to believe, but nothing has been the same ever since.” I stared into those hollow eyes and added, “You, Ayla, haven’t left my mind since that night, and I haven’t been myself either.”

It took everything in me to say those words, to attempt an explanation. And so it hurt that she just sat there, unmoved by a single thing I said. She didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. Ayla was cold as ice, and that was alarming.

“It doesn’t matter now; it’s all in the past,” she said, her voice flat.

What does that mean? Good or bad?

“I’ve moved on from all of that.” She withdrew a card from her pocket and set it on the table between us.

My eyes dropped to the coffee-brown card lying before me, neatly folded. “What’s this?” I picked it up.

She looked me dead in the eye, as if savoring the expression on my face when she dropped the bombshell. “An invitation to my wedding.”

Her words sank into my heart like a predator’s canines. My eyes narrowed down at the names on the card in my hand. She wasn’t kidding.

Lucas Bianchi. That’s her husband-to-be.

I recognized the name. Italian.

Turned out our mole, Damian, wasn’t blowing smoke. The Irish were this close to tying the knot with the Italians—literally. A marriage deal. Classic power move.

I lifted my head from the card, eyes locking with hers. For the first time since she arrived tonight, a sly, self-satisfied grin, almost imperceptible, tugged at the corners of her lips. I tried to hide my anger, but she saw through the mask I wore, pleased by my displeasure.

My jaw clenched in fury, and I balled a fist, feeling an immense amount of rage course through my veins. My blood boiled, eyes blazing red despite my futile attempt to conceal my emotions.

The thought of Ayla taking another man’s name and being intimate with him fueled my rage. All I wanted to do at this point was drag her home with me. She’d be better off locked up in my mansion.

However, I knew deep down that this was my fault. She never would have agreed to this if I hadn’t abandoned her. She hated this arranged marriage, yes. But she clearly hated me more to go through with it. This meant that she was willing to ruin her life just to get back at me.

It was personal. That was why she agreed to meet me. She wanted to watch me suffer at this revelation. That’s cold.

Satisfied, she rose to her feet like her job here was done. “You’re more than welcome to come,” she added, her smirk broadening.

Her voice was sweet, yet venomous.

Ayla thought she hurt me with this invite? She had no idea what plans I had cooked up for her.

I lifted my chin, met her gaze, and curled my lips into a crooked grin. “Oh, trust me, sweetheart. I’ll be there,” I said, my voice low and menacing.

Her eyes narrowed, brows furrowing as a glint of confusion flashed across her face. Her gaze lingered on me, as if trying to understand the meaning behind my mysterious response.

She blinked, broke eye contact, and walked away.

Alya was playing with fire, and she just might end up getting burned.