Chapter 10: After Dark
Vivienne
He arrives at exactly 8 PM. I expected nothing less.
My office is empty. Staff gone. Lights dimmed to the soft after-hours setting that makes everything look more intimate than it should.
I shouldn't have chosen here.
Callum walks in wearing all black—no tie, top button undone, jacket unbuttoned. He looks different without the corporate polish. Sharper. More honest.
More dangerous.
I stay behind my desk. Keep the barrier.
"Sit," I say.
He doesn't.
He walks to the window first. Looks out at the city. Then turns to face me, leaning against the glass with his arms crossed.
"Her name," he says.
I hesitate. "Lily."
Something shifts in his face. Just barely. Like the name hit something soft he didn't know he still had.
"Lily," he repeats.
"She's four. Almost five."
"I know the math," he says.
"Then you know why I didn't tell you."
"No," he says. "I don't."
I stand. I can't have this conversation sitting down.
"You threw me away," I say. "In front of everyone. Without a word of warning. Without a reason I could understand."
"I was—"
"And then you replaced me," I continue, stepping around the desk. "With someone shinier. Easier. Less complicated."
"It wasn't—"
"You didn't call. Not once. I was pregnant, terrified, and completely alone. And you were at dinners with her."
His jaw locks.
"So no," I say. "You don't get to stand here and ask me why."
"I had a right—"
"You gave up your rights when you chose convenience over me."
He pushes off the window and steps toward me. Close.
"That's not your decision to make," he says. Low.
"It was the only decision I could make," I reply. "Because no one else was making them for me."
He's close enough now that I can see the pulse in his neck. Can smell him—something deep and woody that I wish I didn't remember.
"I would have—"
"What?" I cut in. "Stayed? Loved her? Been there?"
"Yes."
"You don't know that."
"Neither do you," he says.
We stare at each other in the low light.
"I'm not the same man," he says quietly.
"Prove it."
"How?"
"I don't know," I admit.
He steps closer. There's barely space between us now.
"Let me meet her," he says.
"No."
"Vivienne—"
"Not yet."
His hand comes up—slowly, carefully—and catches the side of my arm. Just a touch. Light.
I don't move.
"I've thought about you," he says.
"Don't."
"Every day."
"Don't do this," I whisper.
"I made a mistake," he says. "The worst one of my life."
His thumb moves against my arm. Slow. Deliberate.
"You left me," I say.
"I know."
"You don't get to come back now because it's convenient."
"It's not convenient," he says. "It's necessary."
His hand slides up. My shoulder. My neck. His thumb brushes my jaw.
I hate that my body still responds to him. That my pulse kicks. That my breath shortens.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs.
I should.
I don't.
His mouth meets mine like a confession. Slow. Aching. Like he's been waiting five years to finish a sentence he started in the dark.
I kiss him back.
And I hate myself for it.
His hands pull me in. My fingers grip his jacket. We move backward until my back hits the edge of the desk, and he lifts me onto it without breaking the kiss.
"This doesn't change anything," I breathe against his mouth.
"I know," he says.
But his hands are already under my blouse, and I'm already pulling him closer, and we both know—
It changes everything.
He arrives at exactly 8 PM. I expected nothing less.
My office is empty. Staff gone. Lights dimmed to the soft after-hours setting that makes everything look more intimate than it should.
I shouldn't have chosen here.
Callum walks in wearing all black—no tie, top button undone, jacket unbuttoned. He looks different without the corporate polish. Sharper. More honest.
More dangerous.
I stay behind my desk. Keep the barrier.
"Sit," I say.
He doesn't.
He walks to the window first. Looks out at the city. Then turns to face me, leaning against the glass with his arms crossed.
"Her name," he says.
I hesitate. "Lily."
Something shifts in his face. Just barely. Like the name hit something soft he didn't know he still had.
"Lily," he repeats.
"She's four. Almost five."
"I know the math," he says.
"Then you know why I didn't tell you."
"No," he says. "I don't."
I stand. I can't have this conversation sitting down.
"You threw me away," I say. "In front of everyone. Without a word of warning. Without a reason I could understand."
"I was—"
"And then you replaced me," I continue, stepping around the desk. "With someone shinier. Easier. Less complicated."
"It wasn't—"
"You didn't call. Not once. I was pregnant, terrified, and completely alone. And you were at dinners with her."
His jaw locks.
"So no," I say. "You don't get to stand here and ask me why."
"I had a right—"
"You gave up your rights when you chose convenience over me."
He pushes off the window and steps toward me. Close.
"That's not your decision to make," he says. Low.
"It was the only decision I could make," I reply. "Because no one else was making them for me."
He's close enough now that I can see the pulse in his neck. Can smell him—something deep and woody that I wish I didn't remember.
"I would have—"
"What?" I cut in. "Stayed? Loved her? Been there?"
"Yes."
"You don't know that."
"Neither do you," he says.
We stare at each other in the low light.
"I'm not the same man," he says quietly.
"Prove it."
"How?"
"I don't know," I admit.
He steps closer. There's barely space between us now.
"Let me meet her," he says.
"No."
"Vivienne—"
"Not yet."
His hand comes up—slowly, carefully—and catches the side of my arm. Just a touch. Light.
I don't move.
"I've thought about you," he says.
"Don't."
"Every day."
"Don't do this," I whisper.
"I made a mistake," he says. "The worst one of my life."
His thumb moves against my arm. Slow. Deliberate.
"You left me," I say.
"I know."
"You don't get to come back now because it's convenient."
"It's not convenient," he says. "It's necessary."
His hand slides up. My shoulder. My neck. His thumb brushes my jaw.
I hate that my body still responds to him. That my pulse kicks. That my breath shortens.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs.
I should.
I don't.
His mouth meets mine like a confession. Slow. Aching. Like he's been waiting five years to finish a sentence he started in the dark.
I kiss him back.
And I hate myself for it.
His hands pull me in. My fingers grip his jacket. We move backward until my back hits the edge of the desk, and he lifts me onto it without breaking the kiss.
"This doesn't change anything," I breathe against his mouth.
"I know," he says.
But his hands are already under my blouse, and I'm already pulling him closer, and we both know—
It changes everything.