Semua Bab Too Late to Want Me; I chose your Billionaire Brother: Bab 121 - Bab 130

He didn’t want to be here.Not in her apartment. Not at the table. And definitely not across from the man who’d once tried to buy the life Cillian had nearly died building.But he was here. Because Benita had asked. Because she’d said it wasn’t a trap or a reconciliation, just a conversation. And because—despite the years spent pushing people away—he was learning that some fights weren’t worth picking if trust was going to mean anything.Still, he watched the door like it might open on a ghost.Benita was plating grilled fish in the kitchen, her movements easy, controlled. She hadn’t dressed up—just a dark top and soft pants—but she looked like herself. Not tense. Not flustered. Not the woman preparing to be ambushed.That, somehow, made it worse.“How long ago did he call?” Cillian asked, voice low.“Yesterday morning.” She placed a bowl of roasted vegetables on the table. “He said he wanted to speak in person. Apologize. See if there was a way to… reset.”Cillian frowned. “And you b

The sun slanted through the windows like it belonged here.Benita blinked up at the high ceiling, the lazy shadows on the walls, the silk-soft weight of the duvet. For a second, she couldn’t tell where she was.Then she heard it.A distant clang. A soft curse. A pan being set down harder than necessary.Cillian.The night before came back in pieces—Shanon’s voice, raw and cracked, asking for forgiveness he didn’t deserve. The look on Cillian’s face when she found him again. The kiss they shared—not desperate this time, not some apology for what they weren’t, but quiet and careful and true.She sat up, tucking her legs beneath her, rubbing a hand across her face. Her coat was draped neatly over a velvet chair. Her heels were by the bed. Her phone was plugged in.And she was still wearing his hoodie.Benita padded down the hall, past shelves lined with books she hadn’t seen before—Kent’s, most likely. There was a faint hum of jazz coming from the kitchen. The smell of eggs. Butter. Coff

Cillian was different now.Not obvious to most. He still wore black like it was stitched into his DNA, still moved through rooms with that same quiet confidence that made people straighten up when he passed. But to Sylvester, the shift was unmistakable.It was in the way he leaned back on the couch—not guarding anything, just… breathing. It was in how he looked at Benita when she wasn’t paying attention. Like he finally believed he wasn’t about to lose her.Syl watched from the far end of the living room, a glass in hand, not really drinking.The press conference had aired just that morning. Benita’s voice still echoed through the house like it had carved out something new inside the walls. Even Kent had been quiet afterward. Respectfully stunned.Now Benita and Lola were in the kitchen, voices low but warm. Cillian had retreated to the study after a phone call. Kent was upstairs doing something that sounded like music and violence at once.And Syl?He was just there.Like always.A f

He didn’t realize he was moving until he was outside.The glass doors of Hamilton & Blake hissed shut behind him, and the sun hit his face like a slap. For a moment, he just stood there, blinking at the brightness, feeling more hollow than victorious.He should’ve felt something else. Power, maybe. Closure.Instead, he felt like a child in an oversized suit, holding the pieces of something too cracked to repair.His phone was in his hand before he even decided to use it.He dialed. Before the second ring, Cillian’s voice came through.“Yeah?”Syl’s voice came low. “You went to Hamilton & Blake?”Cillian straightened. “I did.”“You threatened to shut them down.” “Yeah.”Syl closed his eyes. “Why would you do that?”“Because they treated you like trash.”“You think I needed saving?”“You deserved justice.”Syl’s voice tightened. “Then why not just ask me? Why did you have to dig behind my back? Those are things we do to other people. We don’t do it to each other. I trust you, why don’t

Benita stared at her calendar. No hearings. No committee deadlines. No scheduled phone calls or press follow-ups.The whole day was blank.She leaned back, eyes flicking to her phone. There was a small, aching pull in her chest that wanted to call Cillian. Just to hear him say something quiet. Just to hear his voice land somewhere behind her ribs like it belonged.A rare, sharp pang of stillness settled in her chest.She thought—briefly, almost impulsively—about calling him. They hadn’t defined anything, hadn’t made promises, but his number had been sitting near the top of her call log like an open door. They’d been… something. Enough of something that she knew he’d show up, no questions asked, if she said she wanted company.But she didn’t call.Not yet.There were still ghosts to handle before she could say she was fully hers—before she could belong to someone like him and mean it. Before she could even call him hers.So instead, she closed her laptop, told her assistant she was ste