She stared at him, stunned. The audacity. The casual charm. It infuriated her. And yet...
The memory of his touch, his lips brushing against her neck, the quiet way he had undressed her, those moments crashed over her. She bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to focus, to resist.
His phone buzzed. He answered briefly, murmuring something unintelligible, before turning back to her with that same insufferable calm. A knock came at the door.
"Come in," Miranda called, her voice steady even as her pulse raced.
A young delivery man stepped in, carrying a stack of bags bearing the name of an exclusive downtown restaurant. He set them down wordlessly and exited.
"What is all this?" Miranda asked.
"Lunch," Daniel said. "For you."
She stared at the spread. There were at least five bags. "This is excessive."
"I remember how you like your meals—perfect, thoughtful. You said once you loved food that felt... personal."
She crossed her arms. "And you thought this would win me over?"
"No," he said, leaning back with a sly grin. "I thought it would remind you I was listening."
Her throat tightened, traitorously moved. She remembered that night, how he'd asked about her favorite fruits. How she'd told him strawberries reminded her of summer mornings at her grandmother's. She hated that he remembered. Hated more how it softened her.
He glanced at his watch. His jet was likely idling at the private airstrip, his father waiting to parade him in front of a boardroom of investors. A polished heir to a corporate empire. But he didn't rise just yet.
"If you want me to leave," he said softly, "I will. But I meant what I said. I'd drop it all for you, Miranda. Just say the word."
Then, almost carelessly, he reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. His fingers lingered, familiar, gentle, maddening.
She didn't move.
He stood. "I'll be expecting your call," he said, eyes holding hers for one last moment before turning toward the door.
She sat frozen, her heart hammering.
Danny, her colleague, her maybe-something, was waiting for her after work. Dependable, kind. Safe.
But it was Daniel who haunted her. Daniel, with his impossible timing and undeniable pull. Daniel, who could shatter her and make her want it.
And as the door closed behind him, Miranda wasn't sure what terrified her more, that he'd come back, or that she wanted him to.
*************
David blinked, unsure if he'd heard her correctly.
"Mr. Boron is dead," his mother repeated, her voice quieter this time, almost reverent.
He stared at her for a long second, then slowly reached for his phone. The screen lit up with a flurry of notifications, news alerts, trending hashtags, condolences from CEOs and diplomats. Flores Boron. Dead. After days in a coma, the global oil titan had finally slipped away.
David shut his eyes and exhaled, the weight of the headline pressing hard on his chest. He thought of Samuel.
He hovered over the call icon for a moment. Is now the right time?
Mrs. Honduran watched her son closely. She reached up, adjusted the collar of his shirt like she had when he was a boy, her fingers pausing at the lines that had settled prematurely on his face.
"My condolences to Samuel," she murmured, almost to herself.
Across the room, David, the youngest of the household was zipping up his backpack, preparing to leave for school. Exams waited, and Vera Honduran wasn't one to permit absence, not even for grief. She knew the stakes. She had done business with the Boron family; she understood what Flores Boron represented. He hadn't just built an empire, he had held it together. Now the weight would fall on Samuel, and the pressure would be crushing.
But Boron Enterprises wouldn't be allowed to crumble. Not on their watch.
Vera's gaze swept across the sitting room, bright, serene, immaculate in shades of white. The space was as she liked it: composed, refined, orderly. Somewhere upstairs, her husband, Henry Honduran, was likely still on the phone, orchestrating business affairs from their bedroom. He preferred to work from home unless it was a designated family day, one of the many reasons she still loved him. He was ruthless with clients, but gentle at home. A rare thing, in their world.
Her eyes returned to David.
There was a stillness to him now. One hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone, his jaw tight with thought. Physically, he was his father's replica, the same striking profile, the same air of gravity. She remembered the man Henry had been when they first met. Charming, sharp-eyed, rich beyond her comprehension. She'd thought he was out of her league. And yet, he'd walked into her mother's modest corner shop one afternoon and paid for everything inside. Just to impress her.
That had been the beginning.
Now, their son stood before her, grown and confident, and, in this moment, deeply shaken.
"Where's Neo?" she asked, softening her voice. "He's waiting to drive you, isn't he?"
David kissed her cheek. "I'll take the wheel today," he said.
He stepped out into the breeze. The morning air tousled his dark hair, and he ran a hand through it, taming it back. Neo was already approaching the car, a sleek, dark vehicle gleaming in the driveway.
"I'll drive myself," David said, gesturing toward the smaller sports coupe parked beside it. "You can stand down today."
Neo gave a respectful bow and stepped aside.
As David slid into the driver's seat and started the engine, his thoughts circled back to Samuel.
Will he come to school today?
He'd tried calling more than once. No response.
David gripped the wheel a little tighter and pulled out of the driveway, hoping, quietly, stubbornly, that his friend would answer soon.
———
After the exams, clusters of students trickled toward the restaurant in search of refreshments, while others wandered the school grounds, savoring a sliver of freedom before heading home. Tasha remained at her desk, chin resting in her palm, a quiet confidence settling over her. She knew she'd done well. But beneath that calm surface, emotions twisted , knotted, stubborn, and sharp. Her thoughts, as always, drifted back to Clinton and their last argument.
She replayed it again and again, the harsh cadence of his voice, the fire in hers, the ache that followed. Despite it all, a part of her still wanted to forgive him. Still wanted to pretend that his cold, dismissive words hadn't bruised something fragile inside her.
She saw it clearly: Clinton yanking off his seatbelt before the car had fully stopped at the house, his jaw tight, lips pressed into a hard line. He had leaned toward her, eyes low-lidded, breath brushing her cheek. But she had turned away, refusing the kiss they both wanted. His reaction had been a blow, a silent, brutal retreat. He bit his lower lip, face unguarded for a moment, before slamming the car door and vanishing into his bedroom.
Since then, he had treated her like she didn't exist.
She remembered standing in the kitchen, toasting bread for his mother, stealing glances as he moved around. He'd walked in, poured himself a drink, and left again, no glance, no word. Just the sound of the door swinging shut. The air had thrummed with absence, each tick of the clock stretching her solitude until it hurt.
Her hands had paused over the crumbs, fingers brushing the counter. She had wanted him to come back, to cross the room and gather her into his arms. She wanted him to whisper things that made her whole again. To undo what he had broken. To make her believe she was more than a passing thrill, more than a name for him to joke about with his friends.
Her imagination betrayed her. She let it.
In her mind, she belonged in his world, not as a visitor, not as an afterthought, but as someone who fit. She saw herself curled against his chest, breathed in the imagined scent of his skin, clean, warm, familiar. He could've been a safe place, if he had wanted to be.
Her breath caught as memory bled into something darker. Heat curled low in her belly. She could still feel his lips on her skin, the trail of his mouth across her breasts, the urgent rhythm of his hands. Each touch had been a promise and a warning, a collision of need and recklessness. Twice. It had happened twice. In his bedroom. In the silence now brimming with secrets.