Part 20 ( Ellie )

The café door swings shut behind her, but I don't move. I just sit there, staring at the spot she left behind, trying to process what the hell just happened.

Juliet Baldwin just walked away.

Not smirking, not throwing one last jab over her shoulder, not taunting me like she always does.

She just... left.

And somehow, that feels worse.

Whats wrong with me? This is what i want right?

I drag a hand down my face, my fingers pressing into my eyes like I can physically push away the weight settling in my chest. Something uncomfortable curling in my ribs. I don't know what I was expecting, maybe for her to laugh, to wave it off, to tell me I was being dramatic.

But not that.

Not her sitting there, nodding, listening. Not her apologizing. Not her looking at me like she'd just lost something.

I force a breath through my nose, sitting back against my chair. I should be relieved. I should be grateful that, for once, she's letting this go. Letting me go.

But I'm not.

Because something about it doesn't feel right. It doesn't feel real. Juliet doesn't back down. She doesn't give up. And she sure as hell doesn't just... fold like that.

I pick up my water bottle, unscrewing the cap just to give my hands something to do. My grip tightens around the plastic.

If Juliet is actually walking away, if she really means it, then why does it feel like I just lost something important?

I take a slow sip of water, swallowing against the dry tightness in my throat.

I need to get out of here.

Grabbing my duffel bag, I push away from the table, heading toward the exit. The café is still quiet, that low jazz humming in the background, the scent of espresso clinging to the air.

I exhale sharply, stepping outside. The cold air hits me like a slap, cutting through the lingering heat from my workout. I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the weight pressing down on me.

It's fine. This is fine.

I wanted this, didn't I?

I walk toward my car, my steps quick, purposeful. My body is sore, exhaustion tugging at my limbs, but my mind is too wired, too stuck.

I replay the conversation in my head.

The way her voice wavered when she said she'd stop, her fingers curled against the table, like she hated every second of it. How she looked at me, like she meant it.

I slam the car door shut behind me, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white.

This isn't right.

I don't know why it isn't right, but I can feel it in my bones.

I let out a slow breath, pressing my forehead against the back of my hand. My heart is still racing, my chest tight.

I have a sinking feeling I wasn't supposed to let her. I wasn't supposed to let her walk away.

-

The gala is already in full swing by the time I arrive.

The venue is extravagant, as expected. Massive crystal chandeliers hang from the high ceiling, casting a golden glow over the ballroom. Waiters in sharp black-and-white uniforms weave between clusters of people, silver trays balanced effortlessly in their hands, carrying champagne flutes and hors d'oeuvres that cost more than most people's rent. A live string quartet plays softly in the background, their music elegant, seamless, the kind of sound that blends perfectly into the hum of conversation.

None of it fazes me.

I step inside, unbothered, adjusting the cuffs of my suit.

It's tailored to perfection, black, sharp at the lapels, fitting me like it was made for me. The material is smooth, expensive, subtly catching the light with every movement. But it's the details that matter. The deep red pocket square tucked neatly into my breast pocket. The hint of crimson in my cufflinks, barely noticeable but still there.

Underneath, I've kept it simple, a black dress shirt, unbuttoned just enough at the collar to toe the line between effortless and dangerous. No tie. No need for one. The outfit does the talking for me.

I know I look good. And I don't need confirmation.

I roll my shoulders back, taking in the room with an easy glance, my posture relaxed, my pace unhurried.

Bella isn't here. She's at her parent's house. Mia's somewhere, but knowing her, she's already scoping out the open bar.

I walk further into the room, hands slipping casually into my pockets. People turn as I pass, some subtly, others not so much. I don't react.

This isn't new. It's not arrogance. It's just fact.

I've learned how to own a room without trying. It comes with the territory, football star, NFL prospect, the kind of name that carries weight when spoken in the right circles.

I make my way toward the bar, nodding in polite acknowledgment when necessary, but never stopping for conversation. My focus is elsewhere.

Because I know she's here.

As I near the bar, I catch a glimpse of her across the room.

Juliet. Draped in black satin, standing near the entrance like she's already conquered the night.

She wore that damn dress knowing exactly what it would do.

I exhale sharply, schooling my expression into something sharp. I force myself to look away, stepping up to the bar, signaling the bartender with a slight nod.

"Scotch," I say, my voice even. "Neat."

The bartender moves efficiently, pouring the amber liquid into a crystal tumbler before sliding it across the bar.

I take it, bringing the glass to my lips.

I drink slow. Measured. Unbothered.

At least, that's what I tell myself.

Because even as I drink, I can still feel her.

Across the room.

I set my glass down, exhaling slowly, feeling the burn of the scotch settle in my chest.

-

I don't go looking for her. But I find her anyway.

It's impossible not to.

Juliet Baldwin commands a room the same way a storm does, without permission, without force. She just exists, and suddenly, nothing else does.

I don't want to look. I do anyway.

She's across the ballroom, her posture relaxed, her movements effortless as she speaks to someone I don't recognize. She holds a champagne flute between her fingers, the stem delicate, the liquid inside untouched.

She's listening, or at least pretending to, her expression cool, composed. She nods at something the man in front of her says, lips curving in a polite, not amused, smile.

She's distant. From me. From everything.

The shift. The absence.She's not playing. No teasing looks. No well-placed smirks. No slow, deliberate glances meant to test my restraint.

She's doing exactly what she promised. She's leaving me alone.

I shift my weight, gripping my glass a little tighter than necessary. The scotch burns against my throat as I take another sip, but it does nothing to dull the tension thrumming beneath my skin.

Because this wasn't how this was supposed to feel. I told myself I wanted this. I told myself I needed this.

But then why does it feel like I can't breathe? Why does the room suddenly feel smaller, the air heavier, my suit too warm?

I glance at her again, watching as she tips her head slightly, listening, her lashes casting shadows against her cheekbones.

She hasn't looked at me once. Not once. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

And it should be a relief. It should. But all I feel is something sharp twisting beneath my ribs.

I roll my shoulders back, exhaling slowly, forcing myself to turn away.

I should focus on something else. On the conversations happening around me. On literally anything that isn't Juliet Baldwin.

But it's useless. Because even when I'm not looking, I still feel her. Like a phantom touch. Like something I can't shake.

I close my eyes for half a second. Just enough to settle myself. Just enough to remind myself where I am. Who I'm with.

When I open them again, I school my expression back. I straighten my shoulders. I pick up my drink.

And I remind myself, I asked for this.

-

The gala moves around me, glittering gowns, perfectly tailored suits, murmured conversations over champagne. I don't give a damn about any of it.

"Crawford."

Anthony's voice cuts through the noise, smooth and knowing.

I glance up just as he steps beside me, his own drink in hand, the usual easy smirk tugging at his lips.

"Vasquez," I greet, arching a brow. "Didn't think you'd find me in this crowd."

He snorts. "You stand out more than you think." He eyes my suit, nodding approvingly. "Gotta say, though, you clean up nice."

I smirk. "You say that like you expected anything less."

He laughs, clinking his glass against mine before taking a sip. "Never doubted you, champ."

"So," I say, tilting my head. "What's with the sudden interest? Just checking in, or is this your way of making sure I'm playing nice with the rich and powerful?"

He grins. "Little bit of both." He downs the rest of his drink, setting the empty glass on a passing waiter's tray. "Come on. There's some people you need to meet."

I hesitate for half a second.

The last thing I want is to schmooze with a bunch of executives who only care about their bottom line. But this isn't just about me. It's about the club, about the business, about securing deals that'll make sure my name holds weight outside of football.

So I finish off my own drink before nodding.

"Lead the way."

Anthony grins, clapping a hand on my back as he steers me toward a group of men gathered near the center of the room.

"Gentlemen," he greets smoothly. "There's someone I'd like you to meet."

They turn, eyes flickering with curiosity as Anthony gestures toward me.

"This," he continues, "is Ellie Crawford. Football star, soon-to-be business mogul, and the future of sports management."

I bite back a smirk at his theatrics, shaking the first outstretched hand that comes my way.

The introductions blend together, names, titles, companies I recognize, some I don't. CEOs, investors, people with too much money and too many opinions.

I talk. I listen. I make sure they know I'm more than just an athlete with a dream. I tell them about the club, about what we're building, about how this isn't just another vanity project.

And to my surprise, they listen. They ask questions. They care.

Anthony was right. These are the people I need to know. The people who can actually help turn this into something bigger than just an idea.

I know understand. The understanding that I belong in these circles, not just as an athlete, but as a name that means something.

The conversation flows easily, the deals start to take shape, and for the first time all night, I stop thinking about her.

-

Anthony is in his element, talking business like he was born for it, seamlessly navigating between introductions and negotiations. I listen, keeping my posture relaxed, nodding at the right moments, letting the conversation flow around me.

"Baldwin!"

Anthony's voice cuts through the chatter, smooth and easy, like he doesn't even realize what he's doing. Like he hasn't just summoned the one person I've spent the last hour trying not to look at, not to think about.

I don't move.

I just take a slow sip of my drink as I hear the unmistakable sound of heels clicking against the marble floor, deliberate and poised.

She steps into the group, effortlessly sliding into the conversation, her presence commanding as ever.

Not a single word is exchanged between us. Not a glance. Nothing. She doesn't acknowledge me.

I take my time. I let myself look. Really look.

The dress is lethal. Black satin, sculpted, clinging to her frame like it was made for her. The slit is high, exposing the smooth expanse of her leg every time she shifts her weight. Her shoulders are bare, her skin glowing under the chandelier lights. Every detail is sharp, refined, dangerous.

She looks like she belongs here. Like she owns this entire fucking room.

She's not looking at me. She keeps her focus on the conversation, on Anthony, on the CEOs circling around us like sharks drawn to blood.

Her voice is smooth, confident, the same voice that's closed million-dollar deals, the same voice that has ruined men with a single sentence.

I watch the way they hang onto her words. The way they nod, intrigued, impressed.

I should be listening, should be keeping my head in the game.

But my gaze keeps trailing.

From the curve of her collarbone to the sharp cut of her jaw.

To the way she sips her champagne without a care in the world. To the way she holds herself.

I swallow, dragging my tongue along the inside of my cheek, forcing my attention back to the discussion.

Juliet speaks with that same sharp ease, negotiating like she's playing chess, like she's always five moves ahead. The men nod along, engaged, hanging onto every detail.

No matter how much space she's giving me—no matter how much distance she's put between us—

She still owns my attention.

Juliet catches me looking.

Her eyebrows furrow, just slightly, like she doesn't understand. Like she wasn't expecting to find my gaze locked onto her, like she wasn't expecting me to be the one staring when she's the one who's supposed to be keeping her distance.

I exhale sharply, tearing my eyes away before she can say anything.

I need to get out of here.

"I'm going to get another drink." I mutter to Anthony, already moving before he can respond. I weave my way through the crowd, barely processing the way people glance in my direction, nodding politely, throwing compliments about the club, about the game. I don't care.

I slide onto a stool, pressing my elbows against the counter. "Scotch." I tell the bartender.

He nods, moving efficiently, pouring the liquid into a crystal glass before sliding it over.

I don't waste time. I take a sip, letting the warmth settle in my chest.

And then, a presence.

I don't have to look to know who just sat down beside me.

She doesn't speak. She doesn't tease. She doesn't do anything. She just sits.

I grip my glass a little tighter, my jaw clenching. This is new. This silence. This lack of push, of play, of something sharp and pointed between us.

And I don't like it.

I take another sip, letting the whiskey burn its way through me before setting my glass down with a soft clink.

"Are you following me?" My voice is quieter than usual, rougher.

Juliet hums."Nope. Just wanted a refill."

I glance sideways. She's calm. Unbothered. Her fingers trace lightly against the rim of her wine glass, her posture effortless, her expression unreadable.

A beat of silence.

"You're drinking more than usual."

I tense. Of course, she notices. Of course, she still sees right through me, even when she's not supposed to be looking.

I let out a laugh, hollow and sharp. "Didn't realize you were keeping track."

She exhales, a slow measured thing, before taking a sip of her wine. "I'm not."

I glance at her again, searching, waiting for the catch, the smirk, the inevitable game. But there's nothing. Just her. Just this.

And it throws me off more than I want to admit.

I take another sip of my drink, letting the silence stretch between us. It's different now. Not comfortable. Not tense. Just... quiet.

Like we're both waiting for something neither of us knows how to start.

Juliet exhales, setting her wine glass down with deliberate care before turning her head slightly, her gaze flickering toward me.

"I don't understand you." Her voice is quieter than usual, missing that usual edge.

I don't say anything.

She continues. "You say you want me to back away." She tilts her head, studying me, searching for something. "But you keep looking at me like that. Like I'm something you need. Something you want."

I swallow hard, my throat dry.

Juliet doesn't stop. "You push me away, then get angry when I listen. You act like I'm the problem, but you're the one who won't make up your mind." She exhales, shaking her head slightly. "So tell me, Crawford. What is it that you actually want?"

I open my mouth. Close it. Exhale through my nose.

I don't fucking know.

I drag a hand through my hair, frustration curling at the edges of my voice. "I don't—" I shake my head. "I don't know what I'm doing."

Juliet watches me, eyes sharp, but not cruel. Not teasing. Just... searching.

I grip my glass, staring down at the liquid inside like it has the answer. "I just—" I sigh. "I can't think straight when you're around."

She doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just listens.

I press my palm against my forehead, letting my shoulders drop slightly. "You say I keep looking at you, but you don't get it, Baldwin."

I shake my head. "I don't know how to stop."

The words linger in the space between us.

Juliet's lips press together, her expression unreadable. She looks down at her wine glass, spinning the stem between her fingers.

Then, softly—so softly I almost miss it—she asks, "What do you want?"

I don't know.

I exhale, my voice rougher than before. "I don't know what I want."

Juliet hums, something faint, something unreadable. Then she leans back slightly. I can tell she's lost.

I glance at her, brow furrowed. "You always act like you have it all figured out."

She smirks, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "And you always act like you don't."

I huff out a breath.

Juliet sighs, rolling the stem of her glass between her fingers before murmuring, "This is exhausting, you know."

I nod slowly. "Yeah."

Another pause.

Then, finally, Juliet pushes her glass away, straightens, and looks at me.

"When you finally admit it to yourself, you know where to find me. But know, I won't wait forever, Crawford. Figure it out before it's too late, I meant what I said. I'm done chasing. I hope you don't take too long."

Then, without another word, she stands, adjusts the strap of her dress, and walks away, disappearing into the crowd.

I sit there, staring down at my drink, feeling like I'm sinking into something I don't know how to escape.