Part 18 ( Juliet )

The drive back to my apartment is calm.

I keep one hand on the wheel, the other resting against my thigh, fingers tapping against the leather in a slow, familiar rhythm. Three taps. A pause. Then two.

My jaw tightens.

The thought of her should amuse me. Should satisfy me. Because I won tonight, I got under her skin, and I left her standing there, breathless and frustrated and pretending like she wasn't dying to react.

Yet, I'm gripping the steering wheel too tightly. Yet, my mind keeps flickering back to the way she looked at me. The way her fingers twitched like she wanted to grab me, shake me, do something. The way her jaw clenched so tight I half-expected her to crack a tooth.

And the way she kissed Bella—right after.

Not because she wanted to. But because she needed to. Because she needed to remind herself where she belonged.

I scoff under my breath, pressing harder on the gas as I take the last turn toward my building.

That's what gets me the most.

That Ellie Crawford—football star, golden girl, all-American athlete—thinks she's still in control.

As if she wasn't looking at me all night like she wanted to pin me against the nearest surface. As if her body wasn't burning when I whispered in her ear. As if she won't be thinking about me the second she closes her eyes tonight.

I smirk to myself, but there's an edge to it.

I pull into the underground parking garage, killing the engine before stepping out.

I take the private elevator up, my fingers tapping absently against my wrist, the same fucking rhythm—three taps. A pause. Then two.

I stop the moment I notice it.

No.

I press my lips together, shaking my head, rolling my shoulders back like I can physically shake the thought of her away.

The doors slide open to my penthouse. The space is exactly as I left it. Clean. Perfect. Cold.

The city stretches out beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, skyscrapers glowing against the dark sky, headlights weaving through the streets below like veins pumping life into the city.

I set my purse down on the black countertop, toe off my heels, and make my way to the bar.

A drink. That's what I need.

Something smooth, something that burns.

I pour myself a glass of whiskey, swirling the amber liquid before taking a slow sip. The heat licks at my throat, settling deep in my chest.

I let my gaze drift back to the window. The city moves on without me. The world keeps spinning. But my mind? It's stuck. Stuck in a moment I shouldn't be thinking about.

I exhale, turning away from the view, trying to focus on anything else.

But then I catch myself doing it again.

My fingers, tracing slow, rhythmic beats against the glass.

Three taps. A pause. Then two.

My stomach tightens. Fuck.

I set the glass down with a clink, inhaling sharply through my nose.

This isn't real. This isn't anything.

It's a game. That's all it is. Just like old times.

Ellie Crawford is predictable. She's reckless, impulsive, always running toward the thing she knows she shouldn't touch.

I'm just making sure she burns for it. That's all this is. I tell myself that. Over and over.

I drain the rest of my drink and step away from the bar.

I roll my shoulders back before heading toward my bedroom.

Ellie Crawford can fight it all she wants. But we both know how this ends.

-

The morning air is cool against my skin as I grip the steering wheel, my fingers drumming lightly against the leather. The city moves around me—cars honking, people rushing across sidewalks.

I usually don't drive myself. I don't have to. That's what the chauffeur is for. But today, I needed the control. Needed the distraction of weaving through traffic, the focus of something tangible, that requires precision.

I press harder on the gas as the light turns green, my car smoothly gliding through the intersection.

It's early, but not too early. The city is awake, alive, but my building is still on the quieter side when I pull into the underground parking lot. My reserved spot is waiting—pristine, untouched, right by the elevator.

I kill the engine, slipping my sunglasses off as I step out. The moment my heels hit the pavement, I straighten my shoulders, letting my usual poise settle in. Any lingering remnants of last night—the heat, the amusement, the frustration—are neatly tucked away beneath the surface.

By the time I step into the lobby, The air-conditioning hums softly, the scent of fresh espresso from the café in the corner lingering in the air. Employees nod as I pass, some murmuring quiet "good mornings."

I approach the private elevators, Claire is already waiting. Punctual. As always.

She falls into step beside me, her heels clicking in perfect rhythm with mine, her tablet in hand. "Good morning, Miss Baldwin," she greets, professional as ever.

"Morning, Claire," I reply smoothly, stepping into the elevator as she follows.

She doesn't waste time. She never does.

"Your morning is packed," she starts, scrolling through her schedule. "First meeting is at nine with the finance department regarding quarterly projections. You also have a follow-up with legal at eleven about the expansion contracts. Lunch has been scheduled with the Renaud investors, and your afternoon is back-to-back with department leads."

I nod, absorbing the information as I adjust the sleeve of my blouse. "And?"

"And your last meeting of the day is with Anthony Vasquez and Ellie Crawford."

My fingers tighten ever so slightly around my sunglasses.

Of course they're last.

I hum, slipping my sunglasses into my bag. "What time?"

"Five-thirty," Claire confirms.

A slow smirk tugs at my lips.

I wonder if she's dreading it.

Instead, I glance at Claire, tilting my head slightly. "And has the agenda been finalized?"

She nods. "Anthony sent over a revised outline this morning. He wants to discuss timelines for construction, financial projections, and legal logistics. The usual."

The usual.

A completely standard, professional, predictable meeting.

Except for one thing.

I exhale through my nose, amusement curling at the edges of my thoughts.

Ellie Crawford.

I glance at my reflection in the elevator's mirrored panel, smoothing a hand over my hair.

She'll have had a full twenty-four hours to sit with last night. To stew in it. To try and ignore it.

She'll have to sit across from me again. She'll have to listen to my voice. Look at my hands. Pretend like none of it got to her. Like she didn't burn every time I got too close.

The elevator dings.

Claire steps out first, falling into her usual place beside me as we walk toward my office.

"Would you like me to prepare anything specific for the meeting?" she asks.

I smirk, my gaze flicking forward. "No need, Claire. I already know exactly how it's going to go."

She nods, as efficient as ever, but I catch the slight furrow of her brows—like she knows there's something unspoken beneath my words.

Smart girl.

I push open my office doors, the familiar sleek interior greeting me. Everything in its place. Exactly as it should be.

-

By the time four-thirty rolls around, the day has been a blur of back-to-back meetings, contract negotiations, and financial projections.

All standard. All necessary.

I lean back in my chair, exhaling as I roll the tension from my shoulders. The city stretches out beyond my office windows, golden afternoon light spilling through the glass, casting sharp geometric shadows across my desk.

I glance at the clock. One hour.

My smirk lingers as I reach for my fork, cutting into the salmon salad neatly placed on the edge of my desk. Claire had it delivered, as she always does, ensuring that I have something "light but high in protein" to keep me from, in her words, running on coffee and sheer willpower alone.

She worries too much. But I let her.

I take a slow bite, flipping open the next stack of documents waiting for me—lease agreements, partnership proposals, a final sign-off for a new property acquisition.

The weight of leadership is something I've long grown accustomed to. Every paper that passes over my desk is a decision, an investment, a shift in the empire I've built brick by brick.

But for once, my mind isn't solely on the ink and numbers in front of me.

No.

It keeps circling back.

To her.

I press my pen to paper, scrawling my signature with practiced ease, but the memory is there.

Ellie Crawford, stiff and tense beside me in Bella's kitchen, seething as I whispered in her ear. The way she wanted to snap at me but couldn't.

Because we weren't alone. Because she had to behave. Because I had her in the exact place I wanted her.

I hum softly, setting the papers aside.

She's going to walk into my office in exactly one hour, sit across from me, try to focus on business.

And I wonder—

Just how much will it take before she cracks again?

I take another bite, chewing thoughtfully.

Not much.

I smirk, wiping the corner of my mouth with a napkin before reaching for the next contract.

-

By the time I finish my food and sign off on half the paperwork, a soft knock sounds against my office door.

I don't look up. "Yes?"

Claire steps inside, her clipboard tucked neatly against her chest. "Your five-thirty meeting is ready. They're waiting for you in the conference room."

I hum in acknowledgment, setting my pen down with a quiet click. I stand, smoothing out the front of my blazer before making my way down the hall, my heels clicking against the polished marble floors.

The glass doors to the conference room come into view, and I push them open without hesitation.

Inside, Anthony Vasquez sits at the long, polished table, scrolling through his tablet, his usual easygoing smirk in place.

But there's only one chair occupied.

No Ellie.

My jaw tightens ever so slightly.

What the fuck?

Is she avoiding me again?

I don't let my irritation show as I step inside, my expression smooth, unreadable. I slip into my seat with practiced ease, offering Anthony a polite nod. "Vasquez."

"Baldwin," he greets, leaning back in his chair. "Looking as sharp as ever."

I arch a brow. "Flattery won't get you a better deal."

He grins. "Damn. Worth a shot."

I glance at the empty seat beside him, feigning mild curiosity. "Where's your client?"

Anthony exhales, stretching his arms behind his head. "Practice held her back. She couldn't make it."

I don't react. I simply nod, tilting my head slightly. "I see."

Fucking hell.

She knew about this meeting. She knew we were supposed to finalize the next steps. And yet, she still managed to find a reason to skip it?

Pathetic.

I lean back in my chair, crossing one leg over the other, keeping my voice even. "No matter. Let's begin."

Anthony hums, shifting in his seat as he pulls up the project details on his tablet.

"Alright, Baldwin. Here's the plan."

I listen, my face composed, my posture poised, my mind locked onto the business at hand.

A single, simmering thought lingers.

Crawford, you can't avoid me forever.

-

The moment Anthony closes his tablet and leans back in his chair, I know the meeting is over. Everything has been discussed, the agreements are in place, and now it's just a matter of execution.

He stretches slightly, flashing me an easy smirk. "Well, I'd say that went smoothly."

I hum, pushing my chair back as I stand. "Indeed."

He gathers his things, about to leave when I tilt my head, my voice smooth. "Before you go, Vasquez."

He pauses, glancing up. "Yeah?"

I slip my hands into my pockets, keeping my expression casual. "Ellie's phone number."

His brows lift in surprise. "What, you don't already have it?"

I offer him the smallest, sharpest smile. "Would I be asking if I did?"

Anthony chuckles, shaking his head as he pulls his phone out. "You two are something else."

I watch as he taps on his screen, and a moment later, my own phone buzzes in my pocket.

"There you go," he says, sliding his phone back into his jacket. "Try not to harass her too much."

I smirk, shaking his hand as he steps toward the door. "No promises."

He laughs, giving me a knowing look before exiting, the door clicking shut behind him.

Silence settles in the conference room. I exhale, pulling my phone from my pocket.

The number is there, sitting in my messages, waiting.

I click on it, tapping the screen, letting my fingers hover over the keyboard.

I could call. I could send something simple. Direct.

But where's the fun in that?

Instead, I smirk, typing out a message.

Juliet: Skipping meetings now? How unprofessional, Crawford.

I hit send.

I don't wait for a reply. I just slide my phone back into my pocket, adjust the cuff of my blazer, and exit the room with a satisfied smirk curling at my lips. She can't avoid me forever.