They began working together professionally, one afternoon a week in her office above the café. The dynamic was utterly new: two professionals debating supply chain logistics, evaluating real estate, analyzing cost projections. They argued, brainstormed, and sometimes agreed. The ghost of the past was in the room, but so was a new, mutual respect.
One afternoon, after a particularly productive session, Chloe leaned back in her chair. "You're good at this. The real version of this."
"It's the only thing that's ever felt like a real challenge," he admitted. "Building with people, not just for them or over them."
As he gathered his things to leave, she spoke again, her voice quieter. "Marcus." He turned. "The almost-kiss. In the hallway. I've thought about it… a lot."
His heart stilled. "So have I. Every day."
"If it happened now," she said, her gaze steady, "who would be kissing me? Marcus Thorne, the billionaire? Marcus Wright, the ghost? Or someone else?"
He put his bag down, meeting her gaze with unwavering honesty. "I hope it would be the man who's standing here. The one who's still figuring it out, but who knows that the most valuable thing in any room is your trust. And he would only be kissing you if you asked him to."
The air between them crackled, not with old electricity, but with something new and terrifyingly potent: possibility, on equal footing.