Part 19 ( Juliet )

I was busy. Practice.

I read the message once. Twice.

I let the words settle, turning them over in my mind like a coin between my fingers, weighing the weight of them.

Busy.

That's what she's going with. That's the excuse she's decided to plant between us, like it's supposed to mean something. Like it's supposed to hold.

I tap my nails against my desk, an idle, absentminded rhythm. A pause. Then three.

Her rhythm.

A slow smirk tugs at my lips before I swipe my thumb across my phone, crafting my reply with ease.

Juliet: is this your way of admitting you're dodging me?

I send it and lean back in my chair, my gaze drifting toward the city skyline stretching beyond my office windows. The sun is beginning to dip lower, casting long, golden streaks across the glass.

A few moments pass. Then my phone vibrates.

Ellie: Not everything is about you, Baldwin.

I exhale a quiet laugh, shaking my head.

Oh, Crawford.

I can practically hear her voice, gritted teeth, forced indifference, that signature bite of irritation that she tries so hard to mask but never really can.

I take my time, considering my next move, tapping a thoughtful finger against my bottom lip before typing.

Juliet: No, but I know when something is.

I wait.

Seconds stretch into a full minute.

Ellie: Whatever helps you sleep at night.

I tilt my head, rolling my tongue against the inside of my cheek.

She's pushing back, but it's weak. Half-hearted. The cracks are already there, splintering beneath the weight of her restraint.

I press forward.

Juliet: You know what helps me sleep at night?

I pause, letting the message sit for a few seconds before sending the next one.

Juliet: Not tossing and turning over a mistake I can't stop thinking about.

The reply is instant this time.

Ellie: Go fuck yourself.

I can't help it, I laugh. A low amused hum slipping past my lips as I toss my phone onto my desk.

That's more like it.

I know her well enough to picture her reaction perfectly. The flare of irritation in those blue eyes, the way her fingers probably tightened around her phone.

She can deny it all she wants. She can claim practice is the only thing on her mind.

But she's lying.

Because if she truly didn't care, if she truly wasn't thinking about it, she wouldn't be replying at all.

I smirk, stretching out my arms before glancing at the time.

Five-forty-five.

I should get back to work, focus on the actual things that matter. The empire I've built, the deals I have to finalize, the people whose livelihoods rest on my decisions.

My fingers twitch.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I reach for my phone again, typing one last message.

Juliet: See you soon, sweetheart.

-

I'm halfway through reviewing a proposal when my phone buzzes beside me. I ignore it at first, finishing the last paragraph before scrawling my signature at the bottom of the page.

Then, with a sigh, I pick it up.

Anthony Vasquez

I arch a brow. Business hours are technically over, and Anthony isn't the type to waste time with pleasantries unless he wants something.

I answer, leaning back in my chair. "Vasquez."

"Baldwin," he greets, his voice smooth as ever. "Busy?"

"I'm always busy."

He chuckles. "Of course you are. But I figured I'd extend an invitation anyway."

I roll my eyes. "To what?"

"A gala." His tone is easy, nonchalant. "Big event. Lots of important people. Thought it might interest you."

I hum, considering. "And why exactly are you inviting me?"

"Because I'm a gentleman?"

I scoff.

"Alright, fine," he concedes, amusement laced in his voice. "Because it's a networking opportunity. Investors, executives, people who'd love to have a conversation with the Juliet Baldwin."

I tap my nails against the desk, weighing my options. "Who else will be there?"

"Everyone who matters."

"Fine. send me the details." I reply.

"Good," he says, clearly entertained. "I'll send you the details. I expect you to show up looking devastating."

I smirk, shaking my head. "I always do."

"Damn right you do."

I hear voices in the background on his end, someone calling his name. He sighs. "Duty calls. See you Saturday, Baldwin."

"See you."

I hang up, setting my phone down carefully.

A gala. High-profile. Elite. A room filled with people I should care about. And Ellie will definitely be there.

I reach for my wine glass, swirling the deep red liquid before taking a slow sip.

-

The boutique is a world of its own, detached, pristine, and steeped in luxury. Soft classical music hums from hidden speakers, the kind that barely registers but adds to the atmosphere. Everything in here exists in hushed tones and reverent murmurs, its reserved for things that cost more than most people make in a year.

A stylist hovers nearby, hands clasped in front of her, waiting for my reaction. The dress I'm wearing is objectively beautiful, an elegant navy number with intricate beading along the bodice, the kind that looks effortless but took hours to craft. It clings in all the right places, flowing down in waves of silk.

But it's wrong.

I tilt my head, studying my reflection in the floor-length mirror, my fingers trailing absently over the fabric. The woman staring back at me looks polished, expensive, put-together.

Claire sits off to the side, her tablet balanced on her lap, always the picture of poise. She's scrolling through my schedule, probably already mentally rearranging meetings based on how long this fitting is taking.

"Well?" she prompts without looking up.

I sigh through my nose. "It's nice."

Claire's gaze flickers up, unimpressed. "That's the fifth one you've said that about."

I say nothing, just step off the platform, the dress trailing behind me as the stylist rushes in to make adjustments. I don't need adjustments. I need something else entirely.

I stride back toward the dressing area as the boutique staff scrambles to bring in another option. I barely listen to their hushed discussions about color palettes and silhouette styles.

This shouldn't be difficult.

It's just a dress. It's just a gala.

The next gown they bring me is different.

Black. Satin. Minimalist but sharp.

I run my fingers along the fabric before slipping it on, the cool material gliding effortlessly over my skin. It fits like a second skin, sculpting along my waist, dipping at the neckline with just enough audacity to make people look. A high slit trails up my leg, a whisper of danger.

I turn, watching the way the dress moves with me.

This isn't the dress you wear to blend in. It's the kind you wear to conquer. That makes people forget whatever they were talking about the moment you enter the room. That demands attention without a single word.

The kind that ensures she will look.

I step back out onto the main floor, the heels of my Louboutins clicking against the marble.

The boutique falls silent.

One of the stylists exhales like she's just witnessed something divine. "Juliet." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "This is the one."

Claire, who rarely reacts to anything, lowers her tablet slightly, studying me with a calculating eye.

"It's a statement," she remarks.

I shift my weight slightly, running my hands down the silk, feeling the coolness of it against my fingertips.

It is a statement.

It says: I don't just walk into a room, I own it.

"This one," I decide.

Claire doesn't question it. She simply taps her screen, setting things in motion.

The boutique staff moves quickly, murmuring about minor alterations, possible jewelry pairings, and the perfect heels to match. They mention something about hair, about makeup, about the details that will make the entire look complete. I let them fuss over the logistics while my mind drifts.

I wonder if she's even planning on showing up.

She will. She has to. And when she does, she'll see me in this. She'll try not to look.

She'll fail.

I glance at my reflection one last time, my smirk sharpening. I can't fucking wait.

-

The café is quiet at this hour, one of those late, night places where the restless gather. The insomniacs, the overthinkers, the people too wired to sleep and too tired to do anything else.

I step inside, and immediately, the scent of espresso curls into the air, warm and familiar. Jazz plays overhead, blending with the distant sound of the coffee machines. A handful of customers linger, most of them hunched over laptops or nursing half-finished drinks.

I spot someone i didn't expect to see.

She sits in the far corner, hoodie pulled up, looking like she barely has the energy to exist. There's a duffel bag beside her, her gym shoes untied, a water bottle half-empty on the table.

She looks... drained.

Not just physically.

For a moment, I just watch.

She hasn't noticed me yet. She's too focused on whatever's in front of her, her phone. Or maybe she's not focusing on anything at all.

Then, as if sensing my gaze, she glances up.

Our eyes lock. Her shoulders going rigid as she straightens in her seat.

I take my time approaching, letting the moment stretch. She watches me, her jaw ticking just slightly. I glance at her table, noting the unopened protein bar sitting next to her water bottle. "A midnight snack?"

She doesn't react. Just leans back, crossing her arms over her chest. "What are you doing here?"

I tilt my head, slipping my hands into the pockets of my coat. "Same as you, I imagine."

She exhales, shaking her head slightly, muttering something under her breath.

I arch a brow. "What was that?"

She looks up, her gaze sharp despite the exhaustion clouding her eyes. "I said, you don't look like someone who imagines things."

I smirk, taking the seat across from her without asking. "And what do I look like, then?"

She exhales sharply, dragging a hand down her face. "A pain in my ass."

I let out a low, amused laugh. "Charming, as always."

She stares at me, unblinking. "Seriously?"

I rest my elbow on the table, chin in my palm. "What?"

"You're just... sitting?"

I lift a brow. "Would you prefer I stand?"

She shakes her head, muttering another Jesus Christ, before reaching for her water bottle.

There's a beat of silence.

She exhales through her nose, tilting her head. "Shouldn't you be at home? In some fancy penthouse, drinking overpriced wine and plotting your next hostile takeover?"

I hum, tracing a slow circle along the rim of my cup. "Tempting, but I had a craving for something sweet." I glance toward the counter. "And apparently, this place has the best caramel lattes in the city."

Ellie scoffs. "Who told you that?"

I smirk, dragging my finger idly against the ceramic. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Her eyes narrow.

I take a slow sip, letting the warmth spread down my throat before setting the cup down. "You look tired."

She tenses, just slightly. "Practice."

"That's your excuse for everything lately," I muse.

She exhales, reaching for her protein bar but not unwrapping it. "It's not an excuse."

I hum, watching her closely. I tilt my head, watching the way her jaw tenses, the way her fingers curl slightly against the table.

I lean back, watching her carefully. "Are you going to the gala?"

She pauses for a second, like she wasn't expecting the question. Then she shrugs. "Probably."

I smirk. "Good."

Her gaze sharpens. "Why?"

I lift my cup again, taking another slow sip.

I don't answer.

She exhales sharply, dragging a hand through her hair.

I hum. She scoffs, looking away.

I watch her, tapping my fingers idly against my cup. Three taps. A pause. Then two.

She notices.

Her lips part slightly, her expression flickering for just a second.

And then something clicks in her eyes. Whatever amusement she had vanishes in an instant, wiped clean like it was never there.

She leans forward, forearms resting on the table, and when she looks at me, it's like staring into a storm. Cold. Ruthless.

I barely have time to brace myself before she speaks.

"You really think this is funny, don't you?" Her voice is low, steady, but there's something sharp beneath it.

I tilt my head slightly. "What are you talking about, Crawford?"

She exhales sharply, shaking her head. "You keep showing up. Pushing. Playing your little games like it's all just harmless fun."

I watch her, my expression unreadable. "And you keep letting me."

Her lips curl into something bitter, something tired. "Because I'm an idiot, apparently."

My smirk falters.

Her voice lowers even more. "You don't get it, do you? You're not just annoying. You're in my head."

I say nothing.

She lets out a hollow laugh, dragging a hand down her face. "I train until my body gives out, trying to get you out of my fucking head. I avoid everyone, pretend I'm fine, pretend this isn't happening. But you just—" She exhales sharply, shaking her head. "You don't stop."

My throat tightens.

Ellie leans back, crossing her arms over her chest, her jaw tight. "So congratulations, Baldwin. You win. You got inside my head. Hope it was fucking worth it."

I just sit there.

For the first time in a long time, I don't have a clever response.

I just listen.

I nod.

Then I do something I never do.

"I'm sorry," I say, my voice quieter than before. "If I pushed you too far."

Ellie blinks, caught off guard.

I never apologize. I never explain myself.

She just watches me, cautious, waiting for the catch. The smirk. The punchline. But for once, I don't have one.

I take a slow breath, leaning back against my chair. My fingers curl against the edge of the table, nails pressing faintly into the wood.

"I mean it," I say, and I do. "I didn't realize how much I—" I don't do this. I don't falter.

But something about the way she's looking at me, like she's exhausted, like I drained the last bit of fight out of her, makes my guts hurt.

I did that.

"You're right," I admit, my voice steadier now. "I do push. I always have. And maybe it was fun at first, maybe I thought it was harmless. But..." I swallow, looking away for the first time, my throat tight. "It's not harmless, is it?"

Ellie doesn't say anything. And for once, I don't fill the silence. I just let it sit. Let it settle. Let it sink in.

"I thought..." I start, but then I shake my head, letting out a soft, humorless laugh. "No, it doesn't matter what I thought."

It doesn't change the fact that she's here, sitting across from me with her shoulders hunched, looking more exhausted than I've ever seen her.

It doesn't change the fact that I've been doing this, chasing, teasing, pushing, because it's easier than facing the reality of what this actually is.

What it's always been.

"I didn't want to see it," I admit. "How much this was affecting you. How much I was affecting you."

Ellie's jaw clenches. Her fingers tighten around her water bottle, but she still doesn't speak.

I inhale deeply, pressing my palms against my thighs, forcing myself to look at her. To really see her.

"If you need space, I'll give it to you," I say, and for the first time, my voice wavers.

Because the idea of stepping back, of stopping this entirely, hurts.

More than it should.

"If you want me to back off, I will."

Ellie still says nothing, but her eyes are locked onto mine now, wary and unreadable. A beat of silence stretches between us.

I let go. I exhale slowly, my fingers tapping against the table once. Twice. Then I stand, smoothing my coat, forcing my expression to stay neutral.

"I'll leave you alone."

Her lips part slightly, like she might say something. But she doesn't.

Because she's tired. Because I made her tired.

I try to smirk. Try to pretend this is just another game, another moment I can brush off. But it doesn't come.

Instead, something cracks in my chest.

I clear my throat, glancing away. "Tell Bella I said hello."

And then, without waiting for a response, I turn and walk away. Each step feels heavier than the last, like my own weight is pulling me down. Like I'm breaking.

Like my world just shattered.