Page 25 of Dreams and Desires

I push harder, legs burning now. My breath picks up. Sweat rolls down my neck, sticks to my chest.

I try to think about something else. Anything else.

I scroll through my calendar. Dinner with the state rep. Zoom call with the Vancouver team. A charity gala I don’t want to attend but have to show up for. None of it feels real.

She’s real.

Too real.

I catch myself picturing her again—not the protest version, but something quieter. Her sitting cross-legged on a couch, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, glasses low on her nose. No makeup. Just her.

That image ruins me.

Because I know what that kind of softness means. It means trust. It means letting someone in. And I don’t know if I’d survive it.

I’ve spent years building distance. Making sure no one gets close enough to find the fault lines. But she doesn’t need to be close. One look, and it’s like she already knows I’m cracked straight through.

I try to tell myself it’s just chemistry. Temporary. Something I’ll burn out of my system.

But I’ve burned through better distractions than her. And they’ve never stuck like this.

I bump the speed again.

Faster.

I shouldn’t want her. Not like this. Not with this much need and not enough sense. She’d hate the life I live. The schedule. The press. The constant pretending. She’d chew me up and spit me out the second she saw how much of it is just empty performance.

And I deserve it.

I’ve earned that kind of ending.

But something in me still wants her to look at me and not see what everyone else sees. Not the billionaire. Not the name. Not the chaos I drag behind me like a wrecking ball.

Just a man. Standing there. Wanting something honest for once.

I reach for my phone, fumble to silence another call—my foot slips.

It happens fast.

The belt jerks beneath me, and there’s nothing to grab. No handles. No frame to brace against. My shin cracks hard into the desk corner, and the next step lands wrong. I try to steady, but the treadmill drags my other foot. I twist sideways, knock into the chair, and slam to the ground.

I shout—more from the shock than pain. For a second, I think it’s fine. Just a bad hit.

Then I feel it.

A sharp, slicing burn along the top of my foot. I look down.

Glass.

The vase. I must’ve clipped it on the way down. One of the heavier pieces from the hotel’s attempt at tasteful design. Shattered now. Blood is already blooming through my sock.

“Shit,” I mutter, dragging myself off the floor.

The towel from earlier is still slung over the back of the chair. I grab it, press hard into the wound. It stings like hell. My heel throbs. I ease into the chair, bracing one elbow on the desk, breathing through the pain.

There’s blood on the hardwood. A thin trail where I dragged my foot back. It’s not deep, but it’s messy.

Just like everything else.

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