6

STEVE POV

The text hits at 2:29pm.

“What happens if I come tonight?”

I stare at it until the screen dims. Tap it back on. Still there.

Ten seconds after I sent “Door locks at 8:15. Don’t be late.” My thumb is still hovering like she might text back.

I lean back in my office chair. Leather creaks under my weight. The gym's quiet this time—only the low hum of the AC and the occasional clang from someone setting up downstairs. But still my pulse is still louder than both.

She sent it at 2:29.

Middle of the fucking afternoon.

It means she’s been sitting with my card all day.

Probably turning it over in her hand, wondering if I’m crazy or just a salesman

Fuck.

I shift in the chair. When my head flashes back to her face.

I walk up to that house this morning and hand the flyer to the woman at the door—Rebecca, the nanny or maid, whatever she is.

But the instant she takes it, she glances at the house, then mutters under her breath, low but clear enough:

“Right timing. Just when the boss complained about his wife's body.”

The words hit like a brick.

I froze for half a second and - complained.

Then Freya steps out into the hallway.

Eyes red. One dry tear on that soft cheek.

And the rest of her—curves, softness, the way she stands like she’s trying to take up less space.

And everything clicks.

Rebecca’s mutter + Freya’s face = he looked at this woman and told her her body was wrong.

My fingers dig into the armrests. Leather groans.

At the moment those tears hit, something in me tears open. I bet she’s crying over the shit that scumbag might have said to her. Why the fuck is she crying? I fucking want her to see what her first sight is doing to me—how she stopped my chest cold the second she appeared.

I’ve seen beautiful women. Never once did one make my throat lock up and my words come out rough like I forgot how to speak normally.

But her?

The second I saw her standing there—shattered, trying to hide it—I lost control of my own damn mouth.

“You’re crying?” came out like a growl. Like her pain was suddenly my business.

Because she’s beautiful. Not fake, not gym-carved. Real. Soft. The kind of beauty that makes a man want to drop everything and just… look. Protect. Keep.

And Mark?

That fucker looked at the same woman and decided she needed fixing.

Decided she was a problem.

I crack my knuckles. Slow.

He doesn’t get to do that.

He doesn’t get to make her cry over the exact things that stopped my heart when she stepped out.

Whatever he’s blind to, I see.

I see it all.

Her line. Her curve. Every single inch, he’s blind to see or hated.

I want to claim it right there.

To show her someone finally sees what’s right in front of him—and make sure the only tears she sheds from now on are the kind that come when she’s lost in bed.

She tried to push me away.

Her small voice. Shaky.

“I’m married.”

“I have a daughter.”

It didn't matter.

It only made the pull stronger. Made me want to stand in front of her and block out anyone who ever made her feel less.

The phone stays dark.

I drag a hand over my jaw. Stubble rasps.

Come on, princess.

The moment I saw you, I couldn’t think straight.

And I’m not getting that control back until you let me prove what I saw.

The office door bangs open hard enough the frame rattles.

My little sis storms in—Diana, with her usual chaos, phone already waving like a flag, grin wide and bright.

“Bro! Guess what—”

She stops dead. Eyes flick over me: phone gripped tight, jaw locked, the way I’m sitting like I’m coiled to spring.

She tilts her head. “Okay, you look like you’re about to either fight someone or fuck someone. Which is it today?”

I don’t look up. “Busy.”

“Busy staring at your blank phone like it’s going to—? Come on, Steve. Well, like I said, guess what? So the guessing is, Flora’s back next week. And she’s going to have a big house party. She’s been asking about you. Like, asking, asking.”

I snort once. Short. Sharp.

“So?”

“So you should come! You’ve been a damn ghost since you opened this place. No dates, no girls, nothing. Your abs are collecting dust, man.”

I finally lift my eyes. Meet hers. “Tell Flora I’m good.”

Diana groans, dramatic as always. Drops into the chair across the desk anyway. Legs kick up on the edge like she owns the place.

“Good at what? Being a monk? You need a woman, Steve. A real one. Not just the ones who come in for free sessions and bat their lashes.”

I stand. The chair scrapes back loudly.

“Found one already.”

Her mouth falls open. Eyes go huge.

“Wait. For real? Who? When? Details, now!”

I walk past her. Shoulder clips the doorframe on purpose.

“Lock up if you’re last out.”

She yells after me down the hallway. “You’re not going to tell me?! Steve! Come on!”

I don’t answer.

I head straight for the main floor. Lights are half-dim.

I drag one bench to the center—right under the overhead spots—and lie down with my back flat and take seconds to close my eyes.

Her face appeared, and my chest tightened like a fist. Heat spikes through my arms and my neck. Fingers flex against the bench, reaching for nothing.

Fuck.

I mutter low, rough, and barely audible in the empty gym:

“You’re killing me, princess… and you don’t even know it yet.”