Jiselle's POV:

The day had hollowed me out.

By the time I finally left work, Manhattan felt louder than usual—sirens echoing between buildings, conversations bleeding across sidewalks, headlights smearing across rain-dark streets. My shoulders ached. My thoughts wouldn't settle. Every interaction from the day replayed in fragments, each one demanding more energy than I had left to give.

I was halfway to the subway when my phone buzzed in my purse.

I pulled it out absently.

An address.

Nothing else.

No greeting. No explanation. No question mark.

A few seconds later, another message appeared.

My place. 6 p.m.

I stared at the screen for a moment before smiling despite myself.

Typical Liam.

Direct. Certain. Entirely convinced I would come.

And the annoying part was... he was probably right.

I slipped my phone back into my purse, but the exhaustion that had been weighing on me all evening suddenly felt lighter, threaded now with anticipation I didn't want to examine too closely.

***

At home, I moved slower than usual.

I let my heels fall near the door and stood in silence for a minute, letting the quiet apartment settle around me. Then I showered, letting hot water rinse away the day while my mind drifted unwillingly toward him.

Toward the way he looked at me.

Like he was studying something he didn't fully understand yet wanted to.

That kind of attention was dangerous.

When I finally stepped into my bedroom wrapped in a towel, I opened my closet and immediately regretted it.

Too formal.

Too effortless.

Too obvious.

I changed outfits twice before laughing softly at myself.

Why did it matter so much?

Because I wanted him to notice.

Not everyone else. Him.

That realization sat heavier than it should have.

In the end, I chose a white dress scattered with delicate black roses. It fit close enough to flatter without trying too hard, the fabric soft against my skin. Simple black heels. Minimal jewelry. Understated.

Controlled.

Just enough.

I studied myself one last time in the mirror before grabbing my coat.

And for reasons I couldn't explain, my pulse quickened.

***

Manhattan glowed gold and silver by the time I reached his building.

The lobby alone looked more expensive than most apartments in the city, all marble floors and soft lighting designed to whisper wealth instead of announce it. The elevator ride to the penthouse felt strangely intimate in its silence, every passing floor tightening the anticipation coiled low in my stomach.

When the doors opened, I barely had time to knock before his apartment door swung open.

Liam stood there wearing dark jeans and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled just enough to expose strong forearms. A black jacket rested lazily over his shoulders like he'd thrown it on at the last second.

But it was his expression that caught me.

The subtle shift in his face when he saw me.

Like he'd expected me to look nice—but not this nice.

His eyes traveled over me slowly before returning to mine, and something warm flickered there.

"Good evening," he said, his voice lower than usual. "I'm glad you came."

A faint smile touched his mouth.

"Especially since you ignored my text. I wasn't completely sure you would."

I stepped past him into the apartment, brushing lightly against his shoulder as I entered.

"I like keeping people uncertain," I said.

"Do you?"

I glanced back at him. "Only the ones who seem too confident."

A quiet laugh escaped him as he shut the door.

His penthouse was exactly what I would have expected and somehow not at all. Modern architecture softened by personal details—books stacked unevenly on shelves, vinyl records near the living room console, a half-finished espresso sitting near the kitchen island. Expensive, yes, but lived in.

Real.

Not some sterile billionaire showroom.

"You look beautiful," he said suddenly.

The sincerity in his tone disarmed me more than the compliment itself.

Not flirtation.

Not performance.

Just truth.

"Thank you," I replied softly. "I brought wine, by the way. I hoped that wasn't presumptuous."

His eyes brightened slightly as he took the bottle from my hands.

"Château Lafite Rothschild?" he asked, impressed.

"2010."

"Well," he said, looking at me differently now, "you continue to surprise me."

"I try."

In the kitchen, he opened the bottle carefully, pouring two glasses with practiced ease. I watched him move around the space—calm, deliberate, attentive in ways most men weren't anymore. Nothing about him felt rushed tonight.

That unsettled me almost as much as it attracted me.

He handed me a glass, fingers brushing mine briefly.

Electric.

I took a sip first.

Smooth. Deep. Expensive enough to taste irresponsible.

Liam tried his next, then closed his eyes for half a second in appreciation.

"That's incredible."

"It should be," I said lightly. "It cost more than my first car."

He laughed quietly, leaning one hip against the counter.

We talked longer than I realized.

At first it was easy conversation—music, travel, ridiculous work stories, cities we hated, places we missed. But gradually the atmosphere shifted into something softer. More intimate.

The pauses between us stopped feeling like gaps to fill.

They became spaces to feel each other in.

And somehow, that was worse.

Because every time silence settled, I became more aware of him.

The warmth of his gaze.

The roughness in his voice when he said my name.

The way he listened fully when I spoke, like he genuinely cared about the answer.

At one point, my attention drifted toward a Polaroid picture attached to the refrigerator.

I stood and walked closer.

The little boy in the photo had Liam's eyes.

"Is this your son?" I asked.

Behind me, his expression softened instantly.

"Yes," he said quietly. "That's Bear."

I smiled before I could stop myself.

"Bear," I repeated. "That's ridiculously adorable."

A small laugh escaped him. "It fits him."

The affection in his voice was unmistakable. Protective. Tender. Entirely unguarded.

I turned back toward him slowly.

"He's beautiful."

"Thank you."

There was a brief pause before curiosity slipped out of me.

"Is his mother famous too?"

Something knowing flickered across his face.

"Cheryl."

I blinked once.

Then laughed under my breath.

"Wow."

"What?"

"You've lived a very... unpredictable life."

He grinned faintly. "That's one way to put it."

"I didn't mean it negatively."

"I know."

But something in his expression shifted afterward. Less charming. More honest.

He set his wine glass down carefully.

"I spent a long time confusing intensity with permanence," he admitted. "I rushed things. Chose badly. Hurt people. Hurt myself."

The vulnerability in his voice caught me off guard.

Most men protected themselves with ego.

Liam was standing in front of me without it.

"And now?" I asked quietly.

His eyes lifted to mine.

For a second, neither of us moved.

Then instead of answering, he reached toward the counter and picked up a Polaroid camera.

"Hold still," he murmured.

I blinked. "What?"

The camera flashed before I could protest.

The soft mechanical whir filled the room as the photo developed.

Liam stepped beside me while we waited for the image to appear.

Slowly, my face emerged against the pale background.

I barely recognized myself.

I looked calm.

Happy.

Open in ways I usually wasn't.

He handed me a Sharpie from the drawer without explanation.

I hesitated before signing the bottom corner.

Then I looked up at him.

"I'm not like the women you've known before," I said softly. "And I'm not interested in pretending to be."

His gaze held mine steadily.

Not possessive.

Not hungry.

Just deeply attentive.

Like he understood the weight behind the words.

Then he stepped closer.

Slowly enough that I could stop him if I wanted to.

My breath caught despite myself.

The space between us disappeared inch by inch until all I could focus on was the warmth radiating from him, the faint scent of cedar and clean linen, the tension tightening low in my stomach.

And God, I wanted him to kiss me.

Which was exactly why I lifted my hand and pressed one finger gently against his lips before he could.

His eyes darkened instantly.

"Dinner first," I whispered.

For one suspended second, neither of us moved.

Then a slow smile spread across his face—patient, amused, devastatingly confident.

"Of course," he said softly.

His hand brushed lightly against my wrist before falling away again.

"I can wait."

And somehow, knowing he actually would made the tension between us feel infinitely more dangerous.