CHAPTER 3: She Doesn’t Need Me Anymore

Dominic’s POV

The numbers on my screen blurred together.

Quarterly projections. Revenue streams. Market analysis.

None of it mattered.

I couldn’t focus on anything except the clock on my wall. 8:47 AM.

Thirteen minutes until the design team arrived. Thirteen minutes until I had to sit through some corporate presentation about color palettes and “spatial flow” or whatever the fuck my architect had been going on about.

I didn’t care about the redesign. Didn’t care about making the office “feel more innovative.”

What I cared about was the hollowness in my chest that hadn’t gone away in three years.

My phone lit up. Lara.

“Jerad wants to know if you’re picking him up after school or if I should. We need to talk about his birthday party. Call me.”

I locked the screen without responding.

Lara could wait. Lara could always wait. She’d left our son when he was six months old, disappeared for two years chasing whatever the fuck she thought she needed, and now she wanted to play involved mother?

Fuck that.

The intercom buzzed.

“Mr. Hale?” Monica’s voice. “The designer from Luxe Interiors is here. Should I—”

“Send her in.”

I didn’t look up. Just kept my eyes on the contract in front of me, pen in hand, playing the part of the busy CEO who barely had time for this meeting.

The door opened.

I heard heels on hardwood. Expensive ones, from the sound of it. Professional. Confident.

“Mr. Hale, this is—”

I looked up.

And my entire fucking world stopped.

Arielle.

Arielle.

Standing in my office. In a navy blue blazer that hugged curves I’d memorized with my hands. Pencil skirt. Those legs—Christ, those legs—in heels that made them look endless. Hair pulled back, showing off her neck. The neck I used to kiss while she moaned my name.

Her lips—those perfect, plump lips I’d tasted a thousand times—were painted a professional nude color.

She looked expensive. Successful. Untouchable.

Nothing like the girl in my oversized t-shirt, laughing in my kitchen, letting me fuck her against the counter because we couldn’t wait to make it to the bedroom.

Our eyes locked.

I watched her face—shock, pain, something that looked like longing—flash across her features for exactly two seconds.

Then it was gone.

Replaced by ice.

She recovered before I could even stand. Extended her hand like I was a stranger. Like I hadn’t been inside her. Like I didn’t know exactly how she sounded when she came.

“Mr. Hale.” Her voice was steady. Professional. Cold. “I’m Arielle Moore from Luxe Interiors. Thank you for the opportunity to present today.”

Mr. Hale.

Not Dominic. Not baby. Not the way she used to say my name when I made her forget everything but the feeling of me.

I forced myself to stand. To reach for her hand.

Her skin was still soft. Still warm.

The touch lasted three seconds. A professional handshake.

It took everything in me not to pull her against me. Not to bury my face in her neck and breathe her in. Not to beg her to forget the last three years and just let me hold her.

But I couldn’t.

Because the way she was looking at me—polite, distant, like I was just another client—told me everything I needed to know.

She’d moved on.

And I was still stuck three years ago, remembering the way she cried when I walked away.

Monica cleared her throat. “I’ll leave you two to it. Ms. Moore, can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” Arielle’s smile was gracious. Professional.

She’d never smiled at me like that. Her real smile—the one I’d earned—was brighter. Warmer. Reached her eyes.

This wasn’t that.

Monica closed the door behind her.

Suddenly, it was just us.

The silence was suffocating.

“Please,” I managed, gesturing to the chair across from my desk. “Sit.”

She did. Smoothly. Gracefully. Opened her portfolio like this was just another Tuesday. Like her hands weren’t shaking.

But I saw it. The slight tremor in her fingers.

She was as rattled as I was.

She just hid it better.

“I’ve prepared three concept directions for the redesign,” she started, her voice all business. “Each takes into account your company’s values of innovation, collaboration, and—”

“Arielle.”

Her name came out rougher than I intended. Almost broken.

She paused. Looked up at me with those eyes I’d dreamed about for three fucking years.

“It’s been a long time,” I said.

Stupid. Inadequate. But my brain had short-circuited the moment she walked in.

Her jaw tightened. “It has.”

Silence.

“I didn’t know you worked for Luxe,” I said.

“I didn’t know HaleAI was your company.” Her tone was carefully neutral. “Your last name wasn’t in the initial brief I received.”

Right. Because the company was listed under our corporate umbrella. Not my name specifically.

Fate. Fucking fate.

Or maybe the universe’s idea of a sick joke.

“How have you been?” I asked, even though I had no right.

Her eyes flashed—anger, finally, something real beneath the professional mask.

“Is this relevant to the redesign, Mr. Hale?”

Mr. Hale.

She was going to kill me with that.

“No,” I admitted. “It’s not.”

“Then perhaps we should focus on why I’m here.” She turned her attention back to her portfolio, fingers gripping the edge a little too tightly. “As I was saying, I’ve developed three concepts—”

I should let her continue. Should be professional. Should pretend this was just business.

But I couldn’t.

Because sitting across from me was the woman I’d loved. The woman I’d pushed away because I was a fucking coward. The woman who’d begged me not to leave and I did it anyway.

And now she was here. In my office. Looking at me like I was nothing.

Like I hadn’t ruined both our lives three years ago.

“Does it have to be like this?” I asked quietly.

She froze.

“Like what?”

“Like we’re strangers.”

Her laugh was bitter. Sharp. Nothing like the sound I used to pull from her.

“We are strangers, Dominic.” She looked up, and fuck, there it was—the pain I’d caused, written all over her face. “You made sure of that when you walked away.”