All Chapters of The Devil Who Owes Me A Kiss : Chapter 31 - Chapter 35

The afternoon light had begun its slow retreat from the windows of Wynthorne Enterprises when Henry found himself standing at his office door, watching Lavinia Hartwell pack her things with the same methodical precision she brought to everything else. Her movements were economical, purposeful—no wasted motion, no lingering glances around the space that had been hers for nearly five years. “The Morrison contract revisions are on your desk,” she said without looking up, her voice carrying that polite distance that had become her default tone with him. “I’ve flagged the sections that need your attention.” “Thank you.” The words felt inadequate, but what else could he say? That he’d spent the better part of the week finding excuses to walk past her temporary workspace? That the sight of her empty office next to his felt like a missing tooth he couldn’t stop probing with his tongue? His phone buzzed against his desk. Verity’s name flashed on t

The following Tuesday arrived wrapped in the kind of October chill that crept through wool coats and settled in bones. Henry had spent the better part of the week fighting the urge to repeat his Tuesday evening surveillance, telling himself it had been a moment of temporary madness brought on by Uncle Peter’s revelation about the emerald set. Rational men didn’t follow their former fiancées through city streets. Rational men respected boundaries.But Tuesday evening found him parked across from Sterling & Associates at half past seven, his hands gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled determination to simply drive away. The rational part of his mind catalogued all the reasons this was inappropriate: Lavinia had made her wishes clear, he had no right to monitor her movements, and Verity was expecting his call about their dinner plans.The irrational part—the part that had been growing stronger each day—noted that the streets weren’t entirely safe after dark,

The week after the stalker incident passed in deliberate silence. Henry Wynthorne made no attempt to follow Lavinia Hartwell’s evening routines, telling himself he’d done enough damage simply by being discovered. But by Thursday, the restlessness had returned—a gnawing uncertainty that pulled at him like an undertow. He found himself lingering near the office windows as five o’clock approached, watching the street below with the careful attention of someone pretending not to care. When Lavinia emerged that evening, her shoulders bore the same tired slump he’d noticed before. Something about the sight made his chest tighten with an emotion he refused to name. Without conscious decision, his feet carried him to his car. The distance he maintained was greater this time, more careful. He told himself it was prudent caution after her obvious displeasure at being followed. But the truth sat heavier in his stomach—he couldn’t bear to stop, and he couldn’t bear