Page 20

CHAPTER 19

Alana

I tug the zipper of my dress up slowly, feeling the fabric slide over my waist. It’s a little black, off-the-shoulder number.

I pair it with black YSL heels.

Sexy enough for dinner with someone who’s already seen me naked a dozen times.

I swipe on a deep red lip and lean into the mirror to check for smudges.

My stitches have completely dissolved.

I’m left with a small scar, but I don’t mind that anymore.

I used to think healing meant making the scars disappear.

But maybe that was never the point.

Maybe these marks are mine for a reason.

Fragments of a story only my body remembers.

Not wounds anymore, but reminders.

My lashes are curled, my skin’s glowing and my hair is pinned in that loose I didn’t try too hard kind of way that took…

way too much effort.

I open my vanity drawer, the one where I keep some of our jewellery samples and stack on a few of our silver Winter Collection necklaces, layering them like armour, paired with chunky silver earrings

My hand hovers over the rings.

The two blue topaz options.

I reach for the one Hunter said he liked most, then stop myself.

I choose the other one.

The one with the round stone.

Safer. Simpler.

I step back, heels clicking softly against the wooden floor and catch movement.

Hunter.

He’s seated at the kitchen counter, typing something furiously on his laptop.

Jaw tight. Dressed in all black, of course.

Leather jacket and brooding energy included.

I turn toward him, one hand on my hip.

“Well?”

His eyes rake over me.

Slow. Measured. Controlled.

But something flickers too fast to catch.

Regret? Anger? Hunger?

“You look…” His voice is low, gravel-edged.

“Beautiful.”

I blink.

Not hot. Not stunning.

Not even a sarcastic jab about how I clean up.

Beautiful.

I smirk, trying to hide the way my stomach somersaults.

“That sounded suspiciously like a compliment.”

He doesn’t take the bait.

Just nods once and steps aside as I grab my silver Chanel bag.

I pause, hand hovering over my car keys.

“Want to drive?” I ask, keeping my voice even.

His brow lifts. Barely.

“You’re letting me drive?”

“I trust you.”

The words slip out before I even think about them.

And I realise… they’re true.

His eyes hold mine a beat too long.

Then he nods. “Let’s go.”

The drive to the restaurant is quiet.

Stretched thin. Like something unspoken is pressing on the space between us.

I don’t break it. I just watch the city lights blur past the window and pretend the silence isn’t starting to ache.

When we pull up to the restaurant, Hunter slides out first and opens my door before the valet even approaches.

“I’ll give you space,” he says quietly, eyes scanning the entrance like he’s gearing up for war.

“Thanks,” I murmur.

He doesn’t follow me in.

He watches me go. He doesn’t say anything.

But his silence walks with me all the way to the table.

Tristin’s already there when I arrive.

Blazer crisp, shirt open at the collar, wine glass already half full.

He stands to kiss me on the cheek, the gesture practiced, easy.

“Alana,” he says, smiling like we’re old money meeting over mergers.

“You look incredible.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

We sit.

Menus open. No butterflies.

The conversation flows.

Smooth. Predictable.

Market trends, travel updates, a story about a client who forgot his wedding anniversary.

It’s not unpleasant.

It’s just… surface .

“So,” he says between bites of tuna tartare, “how’s the new living situation? I heard my sister got booted from your spare room.”

I arch a brow.

“Your sister’s doing just fine.”

He grins.

“Sure she is. But tell me, what’s it like living with your very own Liam Neeson?”

I roll my eyes.

“Hunter’s… fine.”

“Fine?” he smirks.

“That’s not what Tessa said. She said he’s tall, dark and emotionally constipated. Which, incidentally, used to be your type.”

I laugh.

Only because it’s painfully accurate.

Usually they were dressed in suits and not leather jackets…

Tristin leans back. “Just making sure he’s doing his job. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you again.”

I stiffen.

Just slightly.

I excuse myself to freshen up.

Mostly to breathe.

In the bathroom, I run cold water over my hands, give myself a shaky pep talk in the mirror.

Then I step into the hallway leading back to the dining area.

Instinct makes me glance toward the bar.

I find him. Hunter. He’s standing near a pillar, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of water.

His eyes are on me. Always on me.

I catch his gaze.

And for one breathless second, we just stare.

There’s nothing professional in his expression now.

It’s all heat and frustration.

And something that looks a lot like restraint.

I turn away before I do something reckless.

Like walk back over to him instead of the man waiting at my table.