Suspicions

Lana Reyes

The day had already taken me apart and left the pieces scattered across casebooks and caffeine crashes. My back ached from lugging textbooks like I was some overburdened academic mule, my brain fried from Socratic slaughter, and my iced coffee was now just sad, bitter water. NYU Law was prestigious, alright. So prestigious it came with a side of burnout and soul erosion.

The hallways buzzed with desperate energy. Students with hollow eyes clutched flashcards like lifelines, their voices tight with stress, comparing notes and internship prospects like stock traders. I didn’t even bother stopping at the bulletin board anymore—just more dream jobs I couldn’t apply for because I’d be too busy slinging overpriced cocktails at Vortex until 3 a.m.

I was halfway to my last lecture of the day, already fantasizing about collapsing face-first into bed—until I saw the crowd.

A throng of students jammed the corridor outside the lecture hall, chattering like they’d just spotted a celebrity. And in a way, they had.

A sleek sign confirmed it:

Honorary Alumni Lecturer: Nathan Cross, CEO of Aeternum Cross.

Fucking perfect.

My stomach dropped. Not in the swoony “oh my god, he’s here” way everyone else seemed to be experiencing—but in the “why the hell can’t I have one part of my life untouched by that smug, morally bankrupt bastard” kind of way.

Nathan Cross didn’t belong here. Not in my world of law briefs and overdrawn bank accounts. Not in this corner of my life I’d fought tooth and nail to keep clean.

I slipped into the back of the auditorium, more shadow than student, hoping to be ignored. The room was packed, buzzing with barely restrained awe. And then—of course—he walked in.

Tall, cold, and carved out of other people’s ambition, he moved like he owned not just the stage, but the oxygen in the room. Custom suit. Sharp jaw. Ice-blue eyes sweeping the room like a wolf sniffing out prey.

And just my luck—he found me.

Our eyes locked. Just for a second. Maybe less. But it was enough to make my skin prickle and my pulse stutter like it hadn’t gotten the memo that I hated this man. He smiled, slow and deliberate. A little too amused. Like he knew exactly how inconvenient I found him... and liked it.

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly sprained something.

Then he spoke.

His voice slid through the room like a hand down a spine—deep, smooth, practiced. Every word sounded like sex wrapped in strategy, delivered with the confidence of a man who’d never heard “no” and actually believed he never would.

“Power,” he said, “isn’t taken. It’s given up. Usually by people too stupid to know they’re surrendering it.”

A few students chuckled. I didn’t. My pen scratched against the page just to give my hands something to do besides throw it at his smug face.

He kept talking, some self-congratulatory monologue about mergers and acquisitions, hiding weapons-grade arrogance under the thin veil of mentorship. But the subtext—God, the subtext—wasn’t even subtle. Not with the way he kept glancing in my direction.

“You don’t need permission to dominate a room. You just walk in and take what you want,” he said, eyes lingering on me again. “And if someone doesn’t like it… well, maybe they need to be reminded how replaceable they are.”

Oh, I wanted to stand up and slap the microphone out of his hand.

Instead, I flipped to a new page and doodled devil horns on his name. Classy, I know.

But every word from his mouth felt like a challenge. A push. A dare. And the worst part? Part of me wanted to rise to it. Not because I liked him—hell no—but because I hated the way he made me feel. Like I was seen. Like he knew I was different from the wide-eyed girls up front hanging on his every word.

I stayed until the end, even though I hated myself for it. When the lecture finally ended, the room exploded into applause like he’d just parted the Red Sea with his Rolex. I stood fast, already halfway out the door before the first groupie could reach him.

But I glanced back. Just once.

He was swarmed. Golden boy of Wall Street, reformed just enough to pass for inspirational. Every girl around him looked like she was ready to drop her panties just to hear him say “stock options.”

Let them.

I wasn’t one of them. I didn’t care how expensive his suit was or how filthy his mouth could make business strategy sound.

I adjusted my tote, keeping my head down as I moved toward the exit. Just a few more steps and I’d be free—back into the crisp chill of New York’s honesty. Away from the heat in my stomach and the prickle on my neck that only flared when he looked at me like that.

Like he was already planning how to undo me. And worse—like he knew I’d let him.

But I wouldn’t.

Not then.

Not ever.

Right?

“Lana.”

Just my goddamn luck.

His voice slices through the noise like silk-draped steel—low, warm, confident. The kind of voice that doesn’t ask for your attention so much as rip it away from you.

I stop. Shoulders tense. Jaw tight.

Pretending I didn’t hear him would be pointless. Half the room just turned to look at me, necks craned, eyes wide, like I was the lucky bitch who’d been handpicked by the devil in a Tom Ford suit.

I inhale, spin on my heel, and fix my face into something neutral. Bored, maybe. Definitely not impressed.

Nathan Cross is still surrounded—eager interns, flushed girls, the usual vultures flapping their lashes at him—but his eyes are pinned on me. Just me. And the way he looks at me? Like he’s already undressed me with his eyes and is now figuring out the best way to make me beg.

Typical.

His shirt is unbuttoned just enough to pretend it’s accidental. The navy suit he’s poured into is criminally well-tailored, hugging his frame like a second skin. He’s all power and polish, every inch calculated. Crosses his arms like he’s bored. Smirks like he already knows how this ends.

“Leaving so soon?” he asks, voice soaked in mock-casual interest. But I hear it—that undercurrent. A message only meant for me.

I force a smile. Something sweet and sharp, like broken glass in honey.

“Didn’t want to get trampled by your fan club.”

He raises an eyebrow, amused. “And you’re not a fan?”

“Oh, I’m a fan of lots of things,” I reply, stepping closer. “Silence. Boundaries. Men who don’t try to eye-fuck me across a lecture hall.”

A flicker—barely there—but I see it. Approval? Intrigue? Hunger? He steps out from behind the podium like he owns the damn room, and, frankly, he probably does. The sea of students parts around him without a word.

“You always walk like that, Lana?” he asks once he’s close, voice dropping. Just loud enough for me to hear. Just soft enough to sound like sin.

I tilt my head. “Like what?”

“Like you’re trying not to be followed.”

“Habit,” I say, shrugging. “Comes from working in a club full of entitled men who think a look is an invitation.”

His laugh is low, dark. Almost intimate.

“And yet here you are—giving me both.”

I scoff. “Trust me. I’ve been trying to avoid you all night.”

“You’re terrible at it,” he murmurs, eyes flicking down to my mouth and back again like he’s already tasted it in his mind.

He’s impossible. Infuriating. And unfairly hot.

“Thanks for the...lecture,” I mutter, brushing past him. “But I already get enough power trips where I work.”

His fingers barely graze mine—light enough to claim it was nothing, heavy enough that every nerve in my hand flares to life.

“I’ll walk you out,” he says, like it’s settled.

I turn, smirking. “What, bored of the undergrads already?”

He chuckles. Real and rich. “None of them bite like you do.”

I should keep walking.

I don’t.

I glance back once—just enough to see him fall in step beside me like he owns the right.

We push through the double doors, out into the corridor.

“Coffee?” he says, like it’s the most innocent thing in the world. As if the word didn’t sound dirty in his mouth.

“Is that what you’re doing now? Playing sugar daddy to broke law students?”

“I’m offering you five minutes,” he says coolly. “The coffee’s just foreplay.”

I blink. Then smile. “And what exactly are you trying to get out of me, Mr. Cross? Legal insight? My number? A chance to mansplain contracts while I pretend to be impressed?”

“I could do all three,” he replies, smiling. “But honestly? I just want to watch you try not to enjoy it.”

“You’d be less irritating if you didn’t enjoy the sound of your own voice so much,” I snap.

“You’d look prettier if you stopped baring your teeth every time I speak.”

“Then stop saying shit that makes me want to bite.”

The silence between us is thick enough to chew.

He moves first.

“Come on,” he says, already heading for the lounge. Like the matter’s decided.

It isn’t.

But I go.

God help me, I go.

The lounge is tragic. Flickering lights. Questionable stains. Coffee that tastes like burned regret. Nathan steps into it like he’s been dropped into a war zone in Italian leather.

I pour two cups of sludge and hand him one.

“Welcome to academia,” I say dryly. “Try not to touch anything sticky.”

He doesn’t drink it. Just stares at me over the rim. “Charming.”

“Liar.”

“Guilty.”

I sit across from him, arms crossed. He sits like he’s holding court. I sit like I’m waiting to punch a hole in this fantasy.

“So what’s your angle?” I ask. “Bored billionaire decides to flirt with the broke law student for sport?”

He watches me for a long second. Then:

“You don’t look at me like everyone else does.”

“That’s because I’m not drooling on my textbooks,” I snap.

“Exactly.”

God, he’s smug.

“So this is a game,” I say. “Mess with the girl who won’t fall for your bullshit. See how long until she caves.”

He leans forward, lazy and lethal. “Would you?”

“Not even if you paid off my tuition and threw in a penthouse,” I say flatly.

He smiles like I just told him yes.

“You don’t scare me,” I add. “I know your type. Power suits. Power plays. You think people are toys. And I’m not here to be broken.”

His smile sharpens. A slash across his face.

“No,” he says. “But you’d be beautiful once you were.”

My stomach knots, but I don’t flinch. Don’t move.

“Thanks for the coffee,” I say, rising. “But next time, try a better bribe.”

I head for the door.

“I’ll take you to work,” he calls, too casual.

I laugh. “You’ll what?”

“Drive you. Or have you driven. Same difference.”

“You’re serious.”

“Always.”

I shake my head. “Jesus. You’re like a Bond villain with a God complex.”

“And you’re still standing here,” he points out.

Fucking hell.

Ten minutes later, I’m in the back seat of a luxury car next to the man I should’ve told to go to hell. And yet, here I am. Because apparently, I’ve lost my damn mind.

We don’t talk much. He stares out the window like he’s plotting how to conquer the world. I try not to stare at his hands.

When we pull up to Vortex, I’m out of the car before he can say another word. But of course, he does.

“Don’t be late,” he says. “I’d hate to see you lose your job.”

I glare. “Why would you care?”

His smile is slow. Cruel. Confident.

“I like knowing where to find you.”

I slam the door harder than necessary.

And I don’t look back.

Not until I’m sure he can’t see me doing it.

The staff room is dim and almost empty when I step inside, the flickering light above the lockers casting everything in that depressing yellow tone that makes you feel like you’re trapped in a gas station bathroom.

Perfect match for the mood.

I head for my locker, already dreading the tight little black dress that passes for a uniform—designed to show skin, squeeze dignity, and encourage tips. I’ve worn it so many nights it’s practically stitched to my soul.

Then I stop cold.

Right in the center of the table sits a Starbucks cup.

Venti. Extra hot. Oat milk. Two pumps of vanilla. No foam.

My exact order.

And under the sleeve, like it’s been gift-wrapped in smugness, is a folded note.

I stare at it. Hard. Like maybe if I glare long enough, it’ll burst into flames and take the room with it.

But no. Of course not.

Because fate is petty.

I walk over slowly, like it might bite me. Peel the note from beneath the sleeve. Heavy paper. Embossed. Of course it is.

“Consider this a better bribe. Still not giving up. – N.”

I should laugh. I should crumple it into a tight little ball and slam dunk it into the trash with dramatic flair. Instead, I read it again.

Still not giving up.

God, he’s annoying.

How the hell does he even know my coffee order?

I glance around the room like someone’s watching, but it’s just me, my scowl, and a cup of overpriced caffeine laced with ulterior motives.

It’s just coffee, I tell myself, picking it up. Just coffee.

Then why are my hands shaking?

I haven’t even clocked in yet, and I’m already off-balance. Already thinking about the man with the ice-blade eyes and the voice that slides under your skin like silk-wrapped sin.

God help me if he shows up tonight.

He doesn’t.

Thank God.

But later that week, I trade shifts for the rarest of miracles—a night off—and head uptown to the hospital.

My mom’s curled up in her bed when I arrive, pale and impossibly small under the scratchy blanket. Her smile is soft but tired. Her hair’s thinner since the last surgery. Her skin looks like paper. But her eyes still light up when she sees me.

“You look tired,” she says, voice raw from the dry air and too many medications.

“I’m always tired,” I say, smiling like it’s no big deal. “I brought your crossword magazine. You’ve got three puzzles left to beat me.”

“You work too hard, mija.” She takes my hand, her fingers cool and bird-fragile. “Law school in the day, that club at night… You’re burning yourself out.”

“I’m okay,” I lie. Because how do you explain hospital bills and debt collectors and the way panic curls in your chest like a second heartbeat?

She gives me that mom look. The one that used to follow a stolen cookie or a skipped chore. “Don’t lie to your mother.”

I stay until she drifts off, then slip out into the hallway to breathe. The hospital air is thick and sterile. I roll my neck, trying to shake the weight pressing into my spine.

And that’s when I see him.

Nathan Cross.

Of course.

Because the universe is nothing if not committed to making my life a twisted joke.

Even under the ugly hospital lights, he looks like a wet dream in a black-on-black suit—tailored within a millimeter of indecency. Hair swept back like he didn’t even try. Jawline carved with menace. And those fucking eyes—ice blue and locked on me before I can even pretend not to notice.

He’s talking to two guys in suits, hospital board types who look like they’d lick his shoes if he asked. But his attention is already elsewhere.

On me.

A smirk curves his mouth—slow and deliberate.

“Nathan,” I blurt, sharper than intended. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He gestures lazily toward the wall behind him. I follow his motion and stop.

There’s a plaque. Sleek. Polished.

The Cross Foundation Cardiac Treatment Wing

My stomach drops.

“I like to fund things that matter,” he says, tone smooth and loaded. “Heart-related causes tend to catch my attention.”

Because of course his philanthropy comes with sexual subtext.

“You—” I start, then reset. “You paid for all of that?”

“Among other things,” he says, stepping toward me, the air thickening with every inch he closes. “Why? You impressed?”

“No,” I snap, and instantly regret how breathless it sounds. “I’m just… surprised.”

He tilts his head, that wolfish glint in his eyes sharpening. “I don’t do what people expect.”

He’s too close. Close enough that I can smell him—clean, expensive, and infuriating. My pulse is doing somersaults. My brain’s short-circuiting.

And I hate that he knows it.

“Your name’s been on that wall this whole time?”

He shrugs, casual. “Discretion has its uses.”

“Sure. Because billionaires are known for being humble.”

His smile deepens. Real amusement, buried under layers of arrogance.

“You should get back to her,” he says, voice lowering. “She’s lucky to have you.”

That… gets me.

Because it sounds real—like he means it. Like the predator has a soul tucked somewhere behind the steel. And that’s more dangerous than anything else.

“Don’t,” I warn, stiffening. “Don’t pretend to care.”

“Who said I’m pretending?”

“You don’t do anything without a motive.”

“Maybe I just like you.”

“You don’t know me.”

He steps even closer. “Not yet.”

I glare up at him. My jaw tight. My chest tight.

“I’ve seen your type. I serve your type nightly. You don’t fall. You conquer. And I’m not interested in being your next trophy.”

His expression shifts—slightly. The smirk dims, but doesn’t disappear.

“I don’t remember forcing you into anything,” he says, voice low and sharp.

“And I don’t remember asking for your attention,” I fire back.

Silence stretches between us—thick and taut. A collision waiting to happen.

His phone buzzes. He glances at it, then back at me.

“You said you had a shift. Let me take you.”

“I don’t,” I say, lifting my chin. “I’m off tonight. Not that it’s your business.”

“A whole night off?” he murmurs. “I should buy a lottery ticket.”

“I’m living large,” I deadpan. “Overpriced vending machine coffee and buzzing light fixtures. Try not to envy my luxury lifestyle.”

He chuckles, deep and warm. “You deserve better.”

“You offering?” I raise an eyebrow. “Because I don’t need a man with a God complex and a corporate jet.”

“I think you need someone who doesn’t flinch when you bite.”

I blink. Heat rushes up my spine. “Charming.”

He leans in just enough to make it dangerous.

“I like your mouth, Lana.”

“Yeah?” I tilt my head. “I like yours better when it’s shut.”

He laughs. Genuine. And somehow more terrifying than anything else.

“You know, you’ve never said thank you.”

“You’ve never done anything that wasn’t a calculated move.”

His smile lingers, but there’s something darker behind it now—a simmer I can feel more than see.

“You wound me.”

“Somebody has to.” I nod toward the suits still loitering behind him. “You’ve got fans waiting.”

He glances over his shoulder, then back at me.

“Sure you don’t want that ride?”

“Sure you don’t want to stop acting like coffee counts as foreplay?”

He smirks. “It’s my favorite kind. Slow. Subtle. Gets under your skin.”

“You don’t know me well enough to be under anything.”

He tilts his head, voice like a velvet razor. “Oh, I know more than you think. That little pause you make—right before you snap back? That’s hesitation. You hate it.”

My breath catches.

Damn him.

I don’t reply.

I just walk. Fast. Sharp.

And I can feel him behind me—his stare, heavy and deliberate, tracing the curve of my spine like a promise.

I don’t look back.

The train jolted hard, ripping me out of the mental spiral I’d been freefalling through. My fingers clenched tighter around the metal pole, knuckles white. Nathan’s voice was still echoing in my skull like a ghost I hadn’t invited in—low, dark, threaded through with that unbearable confidence.

Even in silence, I could still hear him.

God, I hated how he lingered.

The doors hissed open. My breath rushed out, a shaky exhale that tasted like relief.

Finally. Home.

Mark would be waiting.

Just the thought of him settled something inside me. Mark was gravity. A steady hand on my back when everything else spun out of orbit. He didn’t speak in riddles. He didn’t leave bruises with glances or barbs laced in compliments.

He loved me.

That should’ve been enough.

I let myself into the apartment, the scent of garlic and turpentine wrapping around me like a familiar sweater. Messy. Loud. Real. Somewhere between the cluttered art studio and the chaotic kitchen, I heard it—laughter. Full-bodied and completely unguarded.

Mark.

“Lana! You’re not gonna believe this!”

His voice, bright and breathless, cut through the mental fog Nathan had left behind. I shut the door behind me and forced the tension out of my shoulders like shedding a second skin. My boots squeaked across the hardwood as I made my way past his usual art chaos—open paint tubes, canvases stacked like leaning towers, brushes abandoned in murky water jars like grave markers.

Mark stood at the center of it all, wild-eyed and grinning, a smudge of paint streaking his cheek. His hair was sticking out in every direction like he’d run his hands through it one too many times. He looked exactly the way he always did when life was finally giving him a win.

“Greenwich called,” he said, practically vibrating. “The gallery. They want me. Solo show. Full feature. Real fucking buyers, Lana.”

I blinked. “Wait—what?”

He stepped forward, laughing in disbelief. “They said my work has ‘presence.’ That it’s raw. Magnetic.” He rolled his eyes dramatically, mocking the gallery voice, and I laughed despite myself.

“Mark,” I breathed, something warm blooming in my chest. “That’s… that’s amazing.”

He grabbed me and spun me around like some scene out of a romcom, pulling me into his arms mid-laugh. I buried my face in his paint-streaked hoodie and breathed in that comforting cocktail of soap, turpentine, and boyish optimism.

Safe. Familiar. Mine.

“You deserve this,” I whispered, forehead pressed to his chest. “All of it.”

He kissed the top of my head. “Not without you. You kept me sane when I was one rejection letter away from setting the studio on fire.”

I pulled back, looked up at him.

Mark wasn’t dangerous. He wasn’t complicated. His smile was crooked and sincere. His hands—still stained with red and cobalt blue—curved around my waist like I might break, not like he wanted to be the one to break me.

He didn’t unravel me with a glance. He didn’t watch me like I was a game he’d already figured out how to win.

He just... loved me.

So why the hell couldn’t I stop thinking about Nathan Cross?

About the way his eyes pinned me in place. About the way his voice sounded like it had a key to my spine. About the way he looked at me like I was something he wanted to destroy—and own—at the same time.

God help me, there was a part of me that wanted to let him.

“You okay?” Mark’s voice was soft now, careful.

I blinked. “Yeah,” I lied, pasting on a smile that felt too fast. “Just… proud of you. That’s all.”

He didn’t buy it. Mark always saw through me. But instead of pushing, he laced our fingers together.

“We’re celebrating,” he said. “Pizza. Wine. Just us. No phones. No work. No distractions.”

No Nathan.

“Perfect,” I murmured.

And it should’ve been. But guilt was already sinking its claws in. Guilt—and heat. The kind that came from a gaze that wasn’t here, but still burned like it was.

Mark kissed me, soft and sweet, his thumb brushing the edge of my jaw like I was a painting he didn’t want to smudge.

I kissed him back.

I tried to mean it. Tried to lean into the safety. The certainty.

I chose him. I had to.

Because if I didn’t?

If I let myself get pulled into the orbit of Nathan Cross again?

I wasn’t sure I’d survive the fall.