Chapter 9

Aaliyah’s POV

The ache in my chest hadn’t dulled since I saw that article—Orrin, hand in hand with Lila Voss, stepping out of Le Bernardin like I hadn’t just been there, blushing at his stupid “firecracker” nickname.

I told myself I wasn’t heartbroken. I barely knew him, after all.

But the sting felt too familiar and it made me angry–at myself. It clawed at me.

I’d been ready to call him, to take his deal, to tell him about the baby growing inside me. Now? No chance. I wasn’t falling for another charming liar.

I didn’t call him that day, or the next, or the week after.

His business card sat on my coffee table, taunting me every time I passed it.

I threw myself into work, signing the Larson Group contract and chasing new clients, but the hurt lingered like a bruise I couldn’t ignore.

His voicemails—two, his voice all warm and teasing—went unanswered. “Aaliyah, come on, let’s talk.” I deleted them, my fingers shaking. I wasn’t doing this again.

Lisa called me a few days later, her voice bursting through my phone as I sat on my couch, picking at a bowl of noodles.

“Aaliyah, you okay? You’ve been a ghost since I sent you that article. You didn’t call Orrin, did you?”

I sighed, setting the bowl down. “No. And I’m not going to. He’s just like Henry, Lisa. I’m done.”

She groaned, the sound muffled like she was shoving a chip in her mouth.

“I knew that link would mess you up. But maybe it’s not what it looked like. Those gossip sites lie, you know. You didn’t even ask him about it?”

“Why would I?” I said, my voice sharper than I meant. “I trusted Henry, believed his promises, and he married my sister. I’m not letting another guy play me.”

Lisa’s tone softened. “I get it, babe.”

I rubbed my temples, my head throbbing. “I can’t risk it. Not with…” I touched my stomach, the baby a secret weight. “You know.”

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “You know what, let's dump this talk, it's depressing.”

We talked longer, her stories about a disastrous wedding she’d planned—wrong flowers, drunk groom—pulling me out of my spiral.

“The bride threw a cupcake at me,” she said, laughing. “I dodged, but my hair smelled like frosting for days.”

“Sounds like you,” I said, smiling. “You’re a magnet for chaos.”

“Says the woman who danced on a bar and got proposed to by a billionaire,” she shot back. “Think about Orrin, okay? Even if it’s just to yell at him. You deserve answers.”

When we hung up, the silence hit hard. I wasn’t heartbroken. I wasn’t.

But Orrin’s grin, his “I’m your match”—it stuck with me, and it hurt more than I wanted to admit.

And he didn’t give up. A note arrived at my office the next day, tucked into a coffee delivery from my favorite café.

“Call me, Aaliyah. I’m not going anywhere.” His handwriting, bold and sure, made my stomach flip.

I gave the coffee to Tara and tossed the note. Then, two days later, I was at my desk when Tara’s voice crackled through the intercom.

“Uh, Aaliyah? Orrin Hayes is here.”

My heart stopped. “What?” I hissed, ducking under my desk like a kid playing hide-and-seek.

My pulse raced as I crouched, my skirt bunching up, papers crinkling under my knees. I heard the door open, Orrin’s low voice greeting Tara.

“Is Aaliyah around?” he asked, his tone casual but warm, like he knew I was close.

Tara, bless her, read the room. “Uh, no, Mr. Hayes. She stepped out for a meeting. Sorry.”

A pause. I held my breath, praying he wouldn’t check.

“Alright,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Tell her I stopped by. And give her this.” I heard the rustle of paper, then his footsteps fading. I waited until Tara buzzed me. “He’s gone.”

I crawled out, my face burning as Tara handed me a small card. “You can’t hide forever, firecracker.”

I crumpled it, my heart twisting. Why was he so persistent? Was it all a game?

I needed to get away. New York felt like a cage, every corner reminding me of Henry, Aurora, and now Orrin’s gray eyes.

I booked a trip to Chicago for a PR conference—a three-day event focused on crisis management, perfect for networking and rebuilding my firm’s reputation.

The city’s hustle, the lake breeze—it was a chance to clear my head and forget him.

Chicago was alive, all skyscrapers and wind whipping off Lake Michigan. The conference was at a sleek downtown hotel, with panels on branding and media strategy.

I dove in, shaking hands, pitching ideas, my smile sharp despite the ache I carried.

On the second day, I was in a breakout session, jotting notes on reputation repair, when a murmur rippled through the room.

Heads turned, and I felt that prickle on my neck again, like someone was watching me. I glanced up, and my heart slammed against my ribs.

Orrin.

He stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his suit dark and tailored, his dark hair tousled just right.

Those gray eyes locked onto mine, and that damn grin spread across his face, slow and deliberate, like he’d been waiting for this moment.

The room seemed to shrink, the chatter fading as my pulse roared. I wanted to run, but the session was packed, chairs blocking my path, and slipping out would mean every eye on me.

I was caught.

He didn’t move right away, just watched me, his grin softening into something warmer, almost gentle.

My cheeks burned, and I cursed myself for it. I wasn’t doing this—not his charm, not his games. But as the session ended, he started toward me, weaving through the crowd with that easy confidence.

I gripped my notebook, my heart pounding, nowhere to go.

“Aaliyah,” he said, stopping a foot away, his voice low and warm, like we were old friends. “Fancy meeting you here.”

I swallowed, my mouth dry, his scent hitting me like a wave.

“Orrin,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “What are you doing in Chicago?”

He tilted his head, his eyes glinting. “Speaking at the conference. And maybe hoping I’d find you. You’re harder to catch than a shadow, firecracker.”

My face flushed at the nickname, and I hated how it made my heart skip.

“Don’t call me that,” I said, crossing my arms. “And you need to stop showing up like this.”

His grin didn’t falter. “Stop? When you keep running? Come on, Aaliyah, talk to me. You’ve been dodging me for weeks.”

I opened my mouth to snap back, but the crowd was thinning, eyes glancing our way. I couldn’t do this here, not with an audience.

“This isn’t the place,” I said, my voice low. “Just… leave it, Orrin.”

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “I’m not leaving it. You’re worth chasing, Aaliyah. And I’m not him.”

I shook my head, my heart a mess of want and fear, and turned to go, but his gaze held me, and I knew this wasn’t over.