Alicia's POV 

The library smelled normal, like old paper and new fine prints too, the kind of place that always felt safer than the real world.

I tucked myself deeper into the corner carrel on the third floor, my legs folded under me on the hard wooden chair, a paperback cracked open on my lap. The cover was worn soft from too many hands, but I can't blame no one, because it had a lovable MMC-dark-haired hero, shadowed eyes, the kind of man who promised ruin and redemption in the same breath. My thumb traced the embossed title absently.

Another book boyfriend meant another safe fantasy. Right?

It's been three years, and I still couldn't shake him.

Not the face-not exactly, because I'd never seen it in daylight. Not the name I never learned. Just the feel of him, the way his fingers had known exactly where to press, the low growl of "good girl" against my throat, the stretch and burn and feel of him twitching inside me until I couldn't tell where I ended and he began.

Every man since had been measured against that night and found lacking.

I closed the book with a soft snap, and pressed my thighs together under the table. The ache was familiar now-low, persistent, like a bruise that never quite healed. I told myself it was just nostalgia. A perfect, contained memory. Nothing more.

My phone buzzed against the wood.

Mirabel: Where are you hiding? Lecture ended 20 min ago. I'm starving. Coffee shop in 10?

I smiled despite myself. Mirabel Connell-bright, loud, and relentlessly optimistic-was the only person who could pull me out of my head when I started spiraling into fictional men. She didn't know about the stranger from three years ago, no one did. It was my secret shame and my secret comfort, locked away like a dirty bookmark.

I typed back: On my way. Save me a seat by the window.

I shoved the book into my tote bag , stood, and stretched. My reflection caught in the tall window-blonde hair in a messy bun, freckles across my nose and cheeks, lips still pouty from biting them while reading. Twenty-five now, and sophomore year stretching ahead like it might never end. Curvier than I used to be, and softer in places that made men stare a second too long.

I wondered, not for the first time, if he'd even recognize me if we passed on the street.

Probably not. And it was probably for the best.

Downstairs, the autumn air bit sharp through my thin sweater. Campus was alive with the usual chaos-students laughing too loud, leaves crunching under boots, someone blasting music from a dorm window. I cut across the quad toward the coffee shop, head down, replaying the last scene of the book in my mind.

The hero had finally pinned the heroine to the wall, whispered filthy promises, and fucked her until she forgot her own name.

My steps faltered, and heat crawled up my neck again.

God. I needed to stop.

Mirabel was already at our usual table when I pushed through the door-her long dark hair spilling over her shoulders, skin the same warm tone as the photos of her mother she kept on her phone, eyes bright with whatever gossip she'd collected since lunch.

She waved me over like I might miss her in the tiny shop.

"You're late," she accused, sliding a paper cup toward me. "Latte, extra cinnamon. You looked like you needed comfort carbs."

I dropped into the chair, and wrapped my hands around the warmth. "You're a saint."

"I'm a best friend. There's a difference." She leaned forward, elbows on the table, her grin wicked. "So. Tell me you finally texted that guy from econ."

I groaned. "Chris? No. And I'm not going to."

"He's cute, and persistent. But he had the rich-dad energy without the actual rich dad."

"He's also clingy and won't take no for an answer." I took a sip, let the cinnamon settle on my tongue. "I told him I'm not looking for anything serious."

Mirabel rolled her eyes. "You're never looking for anything serious. You're looking for a fictional man with perfect dialogue and a ten-inch-"

"Mirabel!"

She laughed, loud enough that the barista glanced over. "What? I'm right. You read those books like they're oxygen."

"They're better than reality," I muttered.

She softened a little, reached across to squeeze my wrist. "You deserve real, babe. Someone who looks at you like you hung the moon. Not just... fictional abs."

I forced a smile. "Maybe one day."

She studied me for a second-too perceptive, sometimes-then let it drop. "Anyway. Holiday break's coming up soon, and my Dad's insisting I come home for the full two weeks. He said he misses me, which is code for 'I want to make sure you're not living off ramen and bad decisions.'"

I laughed. "He sounds like a good dad."

"He is. The best." Her expression flickered into something softer, almost wistful. "He's been... quieter lately. I don't know. Work stuff, probably. Or just the usual. You know he never really got over Mom."

I nodded. She didn't talk about her mother's death often, but when she did, it carried weight-like a stone dropped into still water. Mirabel had never known her, only stories and photos and the quiet grief that still lived in their house. It made her cling to her father in ways I sometimes envied, and sometimes worried about.

"You should come with me," she said suddenly.

I blinked. "To your house?"

"Yeah, for the break. Dad's place is huge, there's a pool, a library that'll make you drool, and he always over-caters. You'd be doing me a favor-keeping me from going stir-crazy alone with him and his brooding CEO vibes."

I hesitated. "I don't want to intrude."

"You're not intruding, you're my person. And honestly? I think Dad would like having someone else around. He gets weird when it's just us-starts trying to talk about feelings and then changes the subject to stock prices."

I laughed again, softer this time. The idea was tempting. A break from campus, from Chris, from school books, and from the endless loop of my own head.

"Okay," I said. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure." She beamed, already pulling out her phone. "I'll text him now. He'll be thrilled. Or at least he'll pretend to be thrilled in that stoic billionaire way of his."

She typed quickly, hit send, then looked up with a grin. "Done. Welcome to the holiday invasion, babe."

I smiled back, my heart doing something strange in my chest-half excitement, half nerves I couldn't name.

"It's just a holiday." I repeated to myself.

Rhys's POV

The boardroom on the forty-second floor of Connell Tower was designed to intimidate. Floor-to-ceiling glass on three sides, the city sprawled below like a map someone had forgotten to fold. Polished black marble table long enough to seat twenty, though only six of us ever used it. Leather chairs that cost more than most people's rent. And silence-thick, expectant silence-until someone spoke.

Today, that someone was me.

"Gentlemen," I said, my voice low enough that they had to lean in, "the Zanzibar resort acquisition closes in forty-eight hours. If there are objections, now is the time to speak."

No one spoke, Mark Jackson-seated across the table, his fingers steepled, and eyes narrowed-gave the smallest tilt of his head. Not in agreement or dissent. Just calculation. He'd been gunning for a piece of the Connell Group's hospitality portfolio for two years, ever since I outbid him on the Maldives properties. He hadn't forgiven me, and I hadn't expected him to.

Hayes White, my right hand for fifteen years, cleared his throat. "All due diligence is complete. Environmental reports greenlit. The local government signed off, and we're clear."

I nodded once. "Then we proceed. Hayes, you'll handle the final signatures in Dar es Salaam next week. I want daily updates."

Mark's smile was thin. "Always efficient, Rhys. One might almost think you're in a hurry to leave the country."

I met his gaze. "I have a daughter who expects me home for the holidays. Efficiency ensures that happens."

A ripple of polite laughter from the others, but Mark didn't join in.

The meeting wrapped in under an hour. I stayed seated as the room emptied, watching the city lights flicker on below. Dusk came early this time of the year. The skyline looked colder than it had in years past-sharper edges, fewer warm windows glowing. Or maybe that was just me.

I pulled out my phone. There were no new messages from Mirabel. She'd texted yesterday.

Mirabel; Classes are killing me but I'm surviving. Miss you. Don't work too hard, old man. 

Me; Miss you more. Come home soon. I'll have the chef make your favorite. 

She'd sent back a string of heart emojis and a photo of her dorm room-books everywhere, a half-eaten pizza box on the desk.

My thumb hovered over the screen. I typed, deleted, and typed again.

Me; Be good baby, you'll be home soon.

Sent.

I leaned back, and loosened my tie. The office was empty now except for the hum of the HVAC and the faint tick of the wall clock. I hated this part of the day-the transition from Rhys Connell, CEO, to Rhys Connell, widower, father and man who still woke up reaching for a woman who'd been gone twenty-five years ago.

Elena's photo sat on the corner of my desk in a small silver frame. Her smile was soft, eyes crinkled at the corners. Mirabel had inherited that smile, that exact way of tilting her head when she laughed. Every time I looked at the picture, the grief hit fresh-dull blade, familiar wound.

I didn't date, not really. I've had a handful of dinners over the years, a few nights that ended in hotel rooms with women whose names I barely remembered. They were polite, beautiful but empty. None of them looked at me the way Elena had-like I was the only thing in the room worth seeing.

None of them had ever made me feel like I was drowning and breathing at the same time.

Except once.

Three years ago, at Loungefield Hotel, during a charity gala I hadn't wanted to attend. Too many people, too many condolences disguised as small talk. I'd gone anyway, because Connell Group optics demanded it.

Then I'd seen her.

Her blonde hair catching the chandelier light, freckles across her nose like scattered stars, pouty lips that parted when our eyes met. She'd been young-too young, maybe-but the way she looked at me hadn't been innocent. It had been hungry.

We hadn't exchanged names, hadn't needed to. The way she'd gasped when I pinned her to the wall, the way she'd begged without shame, the way her body had clenched around me like it was made for mine. I'd fucked her until we both couldn't move, until dawn crept in and I fell asleep with her curled against my chest.

When I woke, she was gone.

It was like she had disappeared into thin air, she left without a trace, and left me wondering if all that happened was a dream. Just the scent of her on the sheets and the ache in my cock that lasted days made me conclude it was never a dream.

I'd looked for her, discreetly. Asked the hotel staff, pulled security footage. But found nothing, she vanished like smoke.

Sometimes I wondered if I'd really imagined her, and the ache in my cock and the scent was just my brain playing a tricky game on me. But the memory was too sharp-the taste of her skin, the sound of her moaning "Daddy," the way she'd trembled when I filled her. No imagination could fake that.

My phone buzzed.

Mirabel: Yep, coming home soon. And YES I'll be  bringing someone. My best friend Alicia. You'll love her-she reads even more than I do. Don't scare her off with your brooding face pls.

I stared at the screen, then typed back a simple reply.

Me: Looking forward to meeting her. I'll tell the cleaners to get the rooms ready. You guys should pack warm please, the pool heater's finicky. And I don't want anyone to fall sick.

I clicked the send button.

I stood, crossed to the window. The city glittered below, indifferent. I pressed my palm to the cool glass.

It was two weeks until the holidays, and two weeks until Mirabel filled the house with noise and laughter and the smell of cinnamon from the kitchen. Two weeks until I have my darling daughter back.

I turned off the lights, locked the door, and headed for the elevator.

The ride down was silent except for the soft ding of floors passing. My reflection stared back at me-gray at the temples now, lines deeper around the eyes, shoulders still broad but carrying more weight than they used to. I'm just a lonely forty-five year old, lonely billionaire.

The doors opened to the lobby. Cold air rushed in as I stepped outside. My driver waited at the curb, the black SUV idling.

"Home, sir?"

"Yes."

The city blurred past the tinted windows. I leaned my head back, and closed my eyes.