Page 59 of The Boss

Another pause. His gaze flickered to mine, uncertain, like he wasn’t sure how this was supposed to go. Neither was I. For weeks, every time we’d parted, it had been with hands tangled in clothes, mouths desperate and claiming, his body flush against mine, reluctant to let go. But now the air between us felt different. Thick with things left unsaid. I know he felt it too, even if he didn’t understand it.

Chris shifted his weight, biting the inside of his cheek. “I had a really good time,” he murmured.

I swallowed hard. My throat felt tight. “Yeah. Me too.” The words felt inadequate, too small for what they were supposed to hold.

He lingered, like he was waiting for something— for me to reach for him, to crack a joke, to do anything but stand there like a fucking statue. But I didn’t have it in me.

Instead, I reached out and cupped the back of his neck, pulling him in—not for a kiss, not really, just to rest my forehead against his for a moment. He exhaled, leaning into it, his fingers ghosting over my shoulder.

Then I pulled away.

Chris searched my face, something flickering behind his eyes, but he didn’t ask. Just nodded. “See you tomorrow at work.”

I forced a small smirk that felt wrong on my lips. “Yeah.”

He stepped back into his apartment, and I turned before I could watch the door close.

The cab was still waiting outside, its headlights cutting through the cold night. As I slid back into the seat, the warmth inside did nothing to thaw the chill creeping into my heart. I stared out the window at the snowy streets, where the lights cast pools of pale gold over the wet pavement as the city blurred past. The cab drove farther away, taking me to my home, every mile dragging me closer to a life I wasn’t sure I fit into anymore.

* * *

When I stepped inside my condo, Chantelle was there, waiting for me.

She sat on the couch, legs crossed, scrolling through her phone with the air of someone who had all the time in the world. Flawless, despite the late hour—sleek ponytail, pressed slacks, a blouse that hugged her figure with ruthless precision. She looked up as I entered, her gaze flicking over me in quick assessment, taking in every detail—the way I hesitated at the door, the looseness of my stance, the faint scent of salt air still clinging to my skin.

“Welcome home,” she said smoothly, slipping her phone onto the coffee table. She stood up with easy grace, crossed the room, and kissed my cheek, the scent of her perfume coiling around me like a noose.

I exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of my neck. “Thanks.”

“Dinner’s waiting.”

Not so much an invitation as it was an expectation.

We sat across from each other at the dining table, candlelight glittering against the polished wood. The risotto was lukewarm, the salmon fillet slightly overcooked—microwaved, no doubt, after waiting untouched for hours. She didn’t comment on my delay. Instead, she talked while I ate, filling the silence with updates on the wedding preparations—seating charts, caterers, cake flavors. A house she’d found, one she was certain I’d love. “We should go see it before someone else snags it,” she said between sips of white wine. I nodded, answered when required, let the conversation move along its intended course.

I barely registered when dinner ended. She took my plate, cleared the table with quiet efficiency. I took a quick shower while she stacked the dishwasher, my mind still tangled in the Miami heat, in the press of Chris’s body against mine, in thememory of sun-warmed skin and the taste of salt on his lips. And then we went to bed.

She reached for me in the dark. Fingertips skimming my stomach, trailing lower, the smooth press of her body curling into mine. Familiar. Expected. Yet, something inside me recoiled. Being with Chris never felt like cheating. But this—this did. I pulled away before I could stop myself.

She stilled, her hand lingering against my skin for a second longer before she withdrew. A quiet beat stretched between us. Then—

“Well, that’s a first,” she murmured, propping herself up on one elbow, watching me with that keen, assessing look. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” I said, my voice rough. “Just tired.”

Her lips parted, but she didn’t argue. There was no surprise, no anger—only a quiet, measured understanding, as if she’d already prepared herself for this moment. And knowing her, she probably did.

She held my gaze. “Are you still having sex with someone on the side?”

A long silence. But I had never lied to her. Never denied it. “Yes,” I said.

She inhaled slowly, exhaled through her nose. A flicker of something crossed her face—something almost like amusement, but colder, sharper. “I see.”

I swallowed. “You said you didn’t care.”

“I didn’t,” she admitted, smoothing a hand over the sheets. “It made things easier. You were relaxed. Focused. More manageable. It was fine for a while.” A small pause. “But now it’s time to end it.”

The words landed like a stone in my gut.

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