Malachi's POV

★MALACHI★

I canceled the gala at the last minute.

The invitation had been sitting on my desk for weeks—black cardstock, gold lettering, the kind of event where deals get made in whispers between champagne flutes. My PR team had already sent the RSVP, and Julian had the tux pressed and waiting in my closet. But this morning, staring at the calendar on my phone, I felt something shift. 

Just… a quiet refusal to leave the house tonight.

I called Julian.

“Pull me from the guest list,” I said the second he picked up.

There was a beat of silence. “The gala? You sure? Half the board will be there.”

“I’m sure. Tell them something came up with Lila. Family emergency.”

He didn’t argue. He never did when it came to Lila—or, lately, anything. “Done. Anything else?”

I hesitated. “Make sure the chef is still coming at seven. And tell him it’s just two.”

“Two,” Julian repeated slowly, like he was testing the word. I could practically see the smirk forming on his face. “Understood, boss.”

I hung up before he could say anything else.

The rest of the day passed in a haze of meetings I barely registered. My mind kept drifting back to the midnight-blue dress, the way the silk had clung to Nina’s hips when she stepped into the house yesterday. The way she’d run from me like I was dangerous. Maybe I was.

By six-thirty I was home, showered, and dressed in a charcoal button-down with the sleeves rolled to my elbows. No tie or jacket. Just enough effort to look like I hadn’t tried too hard.

Nina was in the kitchen when I walked in.

She had Lila perched on the counter again, the two of them giggling over a bowl of cookie dough. Nina’s hair was up in a loose bun, strands escaping around her face. She wore one of the new dresses from the shopping trip—a soft cream number that skimmed her thighs and left her shoulders bare. 

Simple, elegant, and most of all, dangerous.

Lila spotted me first. “Daddy! Nina’s letting me eat raw cookie dough!”

Nina’s head snapped up. Her smile faltered for half a second when she saw me, then returned—smaller, more careful. “It’s just a little taste,” she said quickly. “She begged.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to give her salmonella and blame me when she’s sick.”

Nina rolled her eyes—actually rolled them—and it was the most natural thing she’d done around me since the gym. “She’s four. She’ll survive one spoonful.”

Lila shoved the spoon toward me. “Want some, Daddy?”

I shook my head. “I’ll pass. But you—” I pointed at Nina. “Need to wash your hands and come with me.”

She blinked. “Where?”

“Dinner. I need you to test a new menu for the hotels. Can’t trust the board’s opinion—they’ll say yes to anything with truffle oil.”

Nina looked down at her dress, then back at me. “Me? I’m not exactly a food critic.”

“You eat food. That’s qualification enough.” I nodded toward the hallway. “Come on.”

She hesitated, then lifted Lila down from the counter. “Okay, little miss. Bath time for you. Mario will finish the cookies.”

Lila pouted but let herself be carried off by her nanny. Nina washed her hands, dried them on a towel, and followed me without another word.

The dining room had been transformed.

The long table was gone. In its place was a smaller round one near the windows, set for two. Candles flickered in low holders. A single bouquet of white orchids sat in the center. Soft jazz played from hidden speakers—nothing overpowering, just enough to fill the silence.

Nina stopped in the doorway.

“This is… a lot,” she said quietly.

“It’s a tasting menu,” I replied, pulling out her chair. “Sit.”

She did, slowly, like she was afraid the chair might bite. I took the seat across from her.

The private chef—Henri, one of the best in the city—appeared with the first course almost immediately. Seared scallops with a lemon beurre blanc. He explained each element like we were at a Michelin-starred restaurant, then disappeared back to the kitchen.

We ate in relative quiet at first. The food was flawless, as expected. Nina took small, careful bites, like she was still deciding whether this was real.

After the second course—roasted duck with cherry gastrique—she finally spoke.

“You didn’t have to do this,” she said, setting her fork down. “I would’ve eaten whatever was in the fridge.”

“I wanted to.” I leaned back, studying her. “And I needed someone honest. Most people tell me what they think I want to hear.”

She gave a small laugh. “I’m not sure I’m qualified to judge duck.”

“You’re doing fine.”

Henri brought the main—filet mignon with red wine reduction, truffle mashed potatoes, asparagus—and left again. This time he didn’t come back. The meal was done. Just us now.

Nina sipped her water, then looked at me. “Can I ask you something?”

“Always.”

“Why hotels? You could’ve done anything. Real estate, tech, finance. Why this?”

I swirled the wine in my glass. “My father owned three when I was growing up. Not luxury—mid-range, roadside places. He hated it. Said it was beneath him. I wanted to prove him wrong. Turn something ordinary into something people remember.”

She nodded slowly. “You succeeded.”

“What about you?” I asked. “What did you want to be? Before…”

Before everything went to hell. I didn’t say it. She knew.

Nina looked down at her plate. “I wanted to be a chef. Like my mom. She used to make the best adobo. Not the tourist version—real, slow-cooked, the kind that fills the whole house. I thought maybe one day I’d open a little place. Nothing fancy. Just good food.”

Her voice cracked on the last word.

I waited.

She took a breath. “But then… things changed. After my parents—” She stopped. Swallowed hard. “I stopped thinking about dreams. Survival was enough.”

The silence stretched.

I reached across the table and covered her hand with mine. Just for a second. “You’re allowed to dream again, Nina.”

She looked up at me, eyes glassy. “I don’t know how.”

“You’re doing it right now.”

Henri had left a bottle of Cabernet on the table. I poured us each a glass. Nina took hers with both hands, like she needed the stability.

We talked more—lighter things at first. Her favourite movies (she loved old Disney), my hatred of musicals. Lila’s obsession with princesses. The way Nina used to sneak extra cookies when her mom wasn’t looking.

She laughed—really laughed—when I told her about the time I tried to cook for Lila at three and set off the smoke alarm with burnt toast.

The wine worked its magic slowly. Her shoulders relaxed. Her smile stayed longer. By the second glass she was leaning her chin on her hand, eyes bright.

“You know,” she said, words just a little softer than usual, “you’re not as scary as you pretend to be.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Scary?”

“Intimidating,” she corrected. “All tall and brooding and… billionaire-y.”

I laughed, surprised. “Billionaire-y?”

“It’s a word.” She waved her hand. “You use it in sentences like ‘I’m going to buy another hotel chain’ and people just nod.”

“I don’t say that.”

“You think it.”

I couldn’t argue.

She giggled and covered her mouth like she was embarrassed. “Sorry. Wine makes me stupid.”

“Wine makes you honest.”

She looked at me then—. The laughter faded into something softer, and possibly dangerous.

“I haven’t felt safe in a long time,” she whispered. “Not since… not since I was thirteen.”

My chest tightened.

She opened her mouth, like she was going to say more. Then closed it. Shook her head. “Never mind.”

“Nina—”

“I’m fine.” She forced a smile. “Really.”

I didn’t push. Not tonight. She would want to talk one day and I'd be there for her. 

We finished the wine in quiet. The candles were almost gone. The room smelled like wax and cherries and her vanilla scent. 

She yawned, then laughed at herself. “I should go to bed before I embarrass myself more.”

I stood when she did. Walked her to the base of the stairs.

She turned, looking up at me. “Thank you. For tonight. For… everything.”

I nodded. “Goodnight, Nina.”

She hesitated, then rose on her toes and pressed a soft, quick kiss to my cheek. Barely a brush of lips. But it burned.

Then she was gone. 

I stood there for a long time. The house had turned quiet. 

I touched my cheek where her lips had been, and I realized something with perfect, terrifying clarity.

I was in trouble. Deep irreversible trouble.

Because I hadn’t felt this happy—hadn’t felt anything close to this—in years. And the woman responsible was sleeping one door down from mine.