The call from Beauchamp Holdings comes exactly at six p.m.—sharp, precise, like they rehearsed it. I half-expect a virtual handshake with Damien and the investors to finally close the Lyon acquisition deal. But instead, they want to do it in person.
Which means, of course, I trail after Damien to this meeting. Not that I get a say in it. I never really do. And surprisingly, Damien doesn't scoff or throw his usual darts of sarcasm at the idea. He simply agrees. Just a nod. That's the first surprise of the evening.
The second? The venue—a private club in Manhattan known as The Heavens.
It doesn't scream elite from the outside. If anything, you could walk past it thinking it's just another trendy pub on the block. But apparently, behind that geometric exterior lies a playground for those whose bank balances have more zeroes than most phone numbers. A ten-figure ticket just to belong.
I've never been here before. From the outside, the architecture is minimal—sharp lines, a clever tessellation of dark glass and gold edges. Nothing loud. Just quiet, confident money.
We step out of the car, and I fall in line behind Damien like I always do. He strides toward the stairway entrance—long, unfazed. The VIP door, naturally. There's no other entrance.
I ask him why this place. Not because I expect an answer—just out of habit.
He shrugs. "Felt like it."
Classic Damien. Short, flat, and entirely without elaboration. There was a time when that tone unsettled me, made me question whether I was doing something wrong or just being tolerated. Now, it's background noise. Part of the job description.
At the door, he flashes a small card—matte black, thin, no logo. The bouncer, dressed in all-black and not even trying to look approachable, gives a single nod. We're in.
The interior is dim. Not gloomy—just intentionally moody. Lighting spills from unexpected angles—beneath the bar counters, behind the walls, above in strips of warm white. No flashing neon. No pounding music. It's quiet. Thoughtful.
Maybe it's not peak clubbing hours yet. Or maybe this place doesn't do chaos. The kind of people who come here aren't looking for sweat-soaked dance floors. They come for deals, not dancing.
I scan the space. The upper floor's more private—people tucked away in their lounges like secrets behind tinted glass. The ground floor has a polished bar, low-seating areas with sharp furniture, and an empty dance floor that looks more like a modern art piece than a space for movement.
I must be making a face—my thoughts always leak through—because Damien asks, "You don't like that bartender?"
I blink. "What? No, I—I wasn't even looking at him." I let out a quiet laugh. "Just checking the place out. It's… nice."
His eyebrow arches slightly, as if he doesn't quite believe me.
I clear my throat. "Do you come here often?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
Damien turns just enough to pin me with that glacial blue stare. "Only when work calls for it."
Expected.
I nod, filing away the answer. Of course Damien doesn't frequent clubs for fun. The man probably considers fun a frivolous concept. Still, I can't help but wonder—what does he do outside of work? Does he have friends? (Unlikely.) Does he ever unwind? (Doubtful.) Has he ever, just once, done something as human as relax?
Before I can spiral further, a polished host materializes beside us. "Mr. Blackwood. Your usual table is ready."
Damien nods, and we're led to a secluded booth near the back—one with a perfect view of the room and complete privacy from it.
I slide into the seat across from him, the plush leather cool against my skin. I smooth out a crease in my skirt and glance at my watch—6:58 p.m. The seconds crawl now, slow and deliberate, like time knows something I don't.
Beauchamp's team will arrive any minute: the CEO, the CFO, and a parade of assistants. According to the email I skimmed while reheating lunch, the CEO has three assistants. Three. What kind of chaos are they juggling over there? Or maybe it's just a power move. A flex. Either way, not my concern.
My mind drifts—uninvited—to Lily. My little girl should be having her dinner about now. I picture her small fingers fumbling with her spoon, cheeks puffed as she chews too much at once. Mia, bless her heart, texted earlier to say she picked Lily up from daycare and would let me know once she was fed and asleep. I didn't give her a return time. Typical. I don't want her worrying, but she probably is anyway.
Damien's voice cuts through.
"Order a drink." It's low, almost absentminded, as he scrolls through something on his phone.
I shake my head. "I'm good."
He looks up. "Did you quit drinking?"
I offer a smile. A workday smile. Half-truth. "No. Just don't feel like it tonight."
He raises a brow, unreadable. "Why not?"
Why is he pushing? Since when does Damien Blackwood care whether or not I drink? I blink once. Twice. "Stomach's a bit off," I lie.
In truth, I could down five bottles and still walk a straight line. I just… don't want to.
Damien doesn't press further. Instead, he flags a waiter. "Neat Glenfiddich 30," he says. Then, to my surprise: "And a pomegranate juice for her."
The waiter nods and vanishes.
I blink. Pomegranate?
I glance at Damien, but his expression is neutral. Unreadable. Is he trying to be thoughtful? Or is this his version of compromise?
Before I can figure it out, the main doors open.
My spine straightens instinctively.
They're here.
The Beauchamp entourage sweeps in like a tide. Tailored suits. Murmured French that drifts through the air like perfume. At the helm: the CEO. Blond. Immaculate.
Flanking him, two assistants—one male, one female—clutch tablets like sacred scripture. Fingers tap and swipe with religious fervor. Their eyes scan everything and nothing.
Where's the third?
I flip back to the memo: CEO with three assistants and the CFO. And sure enough, there's a silhouette behind him, obscured by his sunbeam presence. I catch only flashes—an elbow, a shadow.
Then the CEO steps forward, arms wide with practiced charm, his French accent smooth as aged cognac. "Monsieur Blackwood, enfin!"
But my attention snags behind him—on the third figure, half-hidden.
Then the CEO shifts.
And the world tilts.
My smile falters.
No, it dies.
Because the man now in full view is a ghost in a bespoke suit.
Ryan.
I forget how to breathe.
Same deep green eyes, like pine forests after rain. Same dark hair, now swept back instead of tousled from sleep or wind. But something's different—sharper. Cleaner. Polished like the rough edges I once loved have been filed down, hidden beneath designer fabric and authority.
His gaze finds mine instantly.
And it doesn't just find—it lingers.
Like he expected me. Like he wanted to see me.
No. No. No.
My heartbeat kicks into overdrive. It crashes in my ears, loud and impossible to ignore. The moment fractures.
"Jennifer?"
Damien's voice slices through the static. I jerk toward him, body on autopilot. His ice-blue eyes narrow, scanning my face. "Are you alright?"
I bink. Once. Twice. Reality claws its way back.
"I—I'm fine," I manage. But my voice betrays me. It's a whisper, barely holding shape. "Excuse me. I'll just—washroom."
I don't wait for a response.
I spin on my heel, legs unsteady, vision tunneling.
Breathe.
Just breathe.
But the air is thick, syrupy, heavy with the weight of everything I left behind.