Alex pov
Nat looks at me like she wants to slit my throat, feed me to rabid dogs, then salt the ground where I fall.
The worst part?
I share the feeling.
Or maybe mine goes a step further—deeper, darker. Mine is a special kind of hatred: childish in its pettiness but lethal in its edges. The kind that simmers under the skin, waiting for one wrong breath to explode.
People like to think lawyers are fueled by some noble sense of justice. That's cute.
No.
I became a solicitor because I'm vindictive. A petty, cold bastard who finds comfort in making people bleed metaphorically. And because of that, I've made it my personal mission to make Nat's life a living hell. I've watched her crumble under long hours and unreasonable demands—and reveled in every second of it.
Except today.
Earlier, something unhinged in me had whispered, What the hell are you doing, Alex? and I let her go home. Just once.
But then came the whiskey. One glass… then two. And suddenly, I was picturing her surrounded by her so-called "family."
The same people she called "hon" on the phone.
That single word clawed at my insides like a jealous beast, and before I knew it, I was drafting a fake contract and summoning her here.
The girls were a bonus—or maybe a symptom. A half-drunk text and they came running, like moths to a flame that isn't even burning hot anymore. They always do.
It's all too easy.
Too predictable.
Too goddamn boring.
I have no family. Not a real one, at least. Not since Father died in the bed of an escort, and Mother stopped pretending to care long before that. Jeremy was always the favorite.
I was the leftover.
We don't talk. Ever.
I cut myself off from that tree and grew my own thorns.
But Nat…
She's the one thing that's never been easy, convenient, or boring. She stands in front of me now, all blonde fire and green fury, and I want to strangle her and kiss her in the same breath.
"You're here," I say, the words coming out flat, lazy. A shield.
"Obviously." Her eyes flick to the girls draped around me like expensive accessories. "I thought there was a contract to review."
"There is. Over there." I nod toward the table.
"You clearly have company."
"Doesn't mean you can't work."
"If you're too preoccupied, surely this can wait."
"It can," I drawl. "But it won't. Sit your arse down and proofread."
Her lips press into a thin, angry line before she spins around and drops into the chair like it owes her money. If she were fire, I'd be ash by now.
The girls giggle. The sound is high and hollow. One plants a perfumed kiss on my cheek. "Let's go to your bedroom."
"We'll make you feel good," the other purrs.
It's loud enough that Nat hears, even as she pretends not to. Her leg bounces under the table, jaw set tight. And me? I can't stop watching her. Not the girls.
The ice clinks in my glass as I take a sip. "You can start right here," I tell them lazily.
Their laughter grates. It's shallow. Nat never laughed like that. She never giggle-giggled like some airheaded doll. She carried herself with quiet elegance, even when she was being a pain in my arse.
One of the girls slides between my legs, fingers hooking my belt, eyes upturned in practiced seduction. "I'll start. Remember when you said I'm good at giving head?"
I don't, but I nod. "You're a doll."
Nat bolts up, clutching the documents. "I'll finish these in the kitchen."
"You'll finish them here," I counter, the corner of my mouth twitching.
"It's distracting."
"I pay you to tune that out. Sit."
Her glare could melt steel, but she sits. Slowly. Controlled. Furious.
The girls are still there, but I've already dismissed them in my head. "Both of you. Out."
They blink. "W-what?"
"I said get out."
They scramble, throwing Nat a dirty look as they leave. Her eyes don't follow them. They're locked on me.
"Are you going to sit," I ask softly, "or should I throw you out too?"
She drops onto the chair again, spine stiff.
"Where's my food?"
She digs through her bag and hands me a container.
"Doesn't look like Caterina's."
"They weren't taking orders, so I grabbed something else."
"Always going against orders."
"I couldn't exactly break into the restaurant for your precious food. You know—because of the thirty-minute time limit and your ruin-Nat's-night streak."
I should be annoyed. Instead, my chest tightens. She never backs down, never swallows her fire.
I slide into the seat opposite her, open the container, and glare at the pasta like it's mocking me. It smells… warm.
I stab at it with a fork, "Since when do you like quiet nights?"
She blinks. "I've always liked quiet nights."
"Could've fooled me. You used to make every party your stage."
Her eyes brighten, that molten green I've spent years trying to forget. She drops her gaze, hair falling forward like a shield. "Back then, I was chasing an unreachable dream."
"And now?"
"Now…" She exhales. "I'm just surviving, Alex. I wouldn't let you treat me like the dirt beneath your stupid Prada shoes if I didn't have to."
She's not the dirt. She's the rock lodged in my shoe, the one I can never shake loose.
I eat a bite of the pasta—actual taste, not just mechanical chewing. It's good. Too good. Something inside me stirs that hasn't in years.
"What's the restaurant's name?"
She freezes. "W-why?"
"Just give me the name."
"It's a tiny place. Not important."
"Name."
"Delightsome's," she blurts.
I huff a low laugh. "Weird name."
"It is."
But the corners of her mouth twitch, like she wants to smile. The light in her face when she does that… it hits me somewhere I don't want it to.
She's still Nat—the girl who smelled like vanilla and trouble. But she's changed too. Softer edges, sharper spine. Older. Prettier. Real.
Before I know it, my hand reaches for her face. My finger brushes the beauty mark she used to hide like it was a sin. She jerks back like I burned her.
"Why don't you hide this anymore?" I ask.
"Why are you touching me?" Her voice cracks, quiet, and that crack slices through me.
"Answer the question."
"I used to hate it," she whispers. "Now I don't care."
My thumb grazes her skin. Her breath hitches. Mine does too. Everything tilts for a second.
"What happened after you left?" The words escape me before I can cage them.
Her eyes harden instantly. "You're nine years too late for that question." She slams the documents down. "I'm done. Anything else, sir?"
"What's your problem?"
"You." Her voice trembles—not weak, but furious. "Why do you care what happened nine years ago?"
"Should I remind you of what you did, Nat?"
She lets out a sharp laugh. "Right. The bastard is going down memory lane."
"Did you just call your boss a bastard?"
"You're the one poking at the past. Do you like tormenting me?"
"Maybe I do."
"Maybe you have too much time on your hands."
"Not nearly enough to make your life the hell I want it to be."
"I hate you."
"Careful," I say softly. "Hate's just love and jealousy on steroids."
The silence after that is deafening.
Her throat bobs, but she says nothing. Just grabs her things with shaking hands.
"I guess you're not in a hurry to read the file," she mutters, her voice suddenly too small. "So I'll take my leave."
Then she's gone, vanilla perfume trailing behind her like a ghost.
Cheaper now. Fainter.
But it still does the same thing to me as it did nine years ago—leaves me angry, confused, and hard as a rock.