Semua Bab Billionaire's Regrets:He Hurt Me But Wants Me Back: Bab 11 - Bab 20

Leah’s POVThe next morning, I arrive at the office with a renewed sense of purpose. If I’m going to work alongside Dwight Spencer, I refuse to let him—or anyone else—see me as anything less than composed, confident, and in control. My attire is deliberate: a fitted white blouse, high-waisted black pencil skirt, and nude heels. My hair is styled in soft waves, framing my face perfectly, and my makeup is flawless yet subtle.I step through the sleek glass doors, making eye contact with the receptionist, whose mouth forms an "O" as I strut by, my expression unreadable.Then I see him.Dwight stands in the corridor, engaged in conversation with his staff. His stance is as composed as ever—hands tucked into his pockets, suit perfectly tailored to his form, exuding power and authority. But the moment his gaze lifts and lands on me, something shifts.His words falter. His expression remains neutral, but his eyes—those piercing blue eyes—betray him for the briefest second.Desire.It flicker

Leah’s POVThe conference room is already occupied when I arrive, its sleek, minimalist design almost sterile in the early morning light. The long table gleams under the soft glow of recessed lighting, and the air is crisp with the scent of polished wood and freshly brewed coffee. Dwight sits at the head of the table, the embodiment of control, his fingers skimming across the edges of neatly stacked documents. His suit—perfectly tailored as always—fits him with an effortless confidence, a stark contrast to the controlled tension in his posture.The large windows behind him filter sunlight through sheer blinds, casting fragmented patterns on the polished surface of the table. It’s almost poetic—the way the light struggles to break through, much like the past that lingers between us, unspoken yet undeniable.He doesn’t glance up immediately, but I know he’s aware of my presence. He always was—back then and even now.“Ms. Carrington,” he greets finally, his voice as smooth and measured a

Dwight’s POVThe office hums with quiet efficiency as I step out of the conference room. I walk with measured strides, my face unreadable, but inside, my thoughts churn. Leah.I should be past this by now.Yet, seeing her today—poised, confident, effortlessly weaving her ideas into something tangible—stirred something I thought I had buried. I force the thoughts aside, buttoning my suit jacket as I reach the elevator. It’s done. I’d made the decision to have her here. And I have to live with it.The doors slide shut, and for a brief moment, I let my shoulders drop. Just a fraction. Just enough to remind myself that I can breathe.By the time I reach the underground garage, my mask is back in place. My driver, Rafael, straightens when he sees me, already opening the back door of the sleek black sedan.“Señor Spencer,” he greets respectfully.I nod, slipping into the car’s cool leather interior. “Take me to Calle de los Olivos.”Rafael doesn’t question it. He never does. With a silent n

Dwight’s POVThe rhythmic clang of metal against metal fills the workshop, the scent of heated gold and silver lingering in the air. I run my fingers over a delicate gold band, its unfinished surface cool against my skin. Around me, the other jewelers work with quiet focus, their hands steady, their movements precise.They don’t know who I am. And that’s how I want it.Jordan is the face of this division. To them, he’s the boss. I’m just another craftsman—an observer, a participant, nothing more. Here, there are no expectations, no whispered assumptions. Only the work.I pick up a pair of pliers, adjusting the small diamond setting on a bracelet when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I ignore it at first, finishing the adjustment before checking the screen.Miss Hayes.I almost don’t answer. Almost.Something tells me I should.I press the phone to my ear, already stepping away from the worktable. “Miss Hayes.”“Mr. Spencer.” Her voice is tight, edged with urgency. “It’s Leah. She had a

Leah’s POVI shut my office door behind me, pressing my back against the smooth wood as I exhale. My heart is still pounding. My mind is racing.What the hell just happened?I press my fingers to my temple, feeling the dull throb where the wound is. The pain is nothing compared to the chaos swirling in my head.Dwight had touched me.Not in the way he used to—softly, possessively, like he was memorizing every inch of my skin—but with careful detachment, as if he was afraid of breaking something. Or maybe afraid of breaking himself.I squeeze my eyes shut, but the image of him in that damn faded polo and washed-out jeans won’t leave me.I wasn’t prepared for that.The Dwight Spencer I had come to know was always immaculately dressed. Crisp suits. Polished shoes. A presence that commanded attention the second he walked into a room.But today… today, he had looked different. He had looked like the Dwight that I once knew, the Dwight that I once loved.Raw. Unpolished. Almost vulnerable.