The flight from the Caribbean back to New York was private, silent, and infinitely colder than the paradise they were leaving behind.
Ariana Blake sat near the oval window of the luxurious Gulfstream jet, her chin resting in her palm as she stared at the infinite stretch of clouds beneath them. She was thirty-two, her long dark hair pulled into a low ponytail, her olive-toned skin pale under the dim interior lights. She wore a white linen blouse tucked into soft beige trousers and looked every bit the sophisticated woman the world expected. But inside, she felt splintered—like a painting dropped one too many times, the cracks hidden just beneath the varnish.
Across the aisle, Leonardo Maddox Cross, thirty-six, exuded the same icy composure he always did. His charcoal suit was immaculate, tailored to fit his tall, lean frame with precision. Not a single hair of his dark chestnut head was out of place, and his grey eyes remained fixed on the screen of his tablet, reviewing merger documents as if nothing on the island had happened. As if they hadn't kissed. As if she hadn't opened her soul to him during a thunderstorm. As if he hadn't held her trembling body and whispered she was safe.
The memory burned her now.
Ariana pressed her fingers to her temple and looked away.
Neither had spoken since they boarded. The air was thick, stagnant—not with the tension of unresolved lust, but something heavier. Regret. Silence had grown claws, gripping everything they didn't say.
Her suitcase was already packed before Leo woke up that morning. He hadn't questioned it. Just watched as she slid her sketchbook into her carry-on and said, "I think it's time to go home."
He'd nodded.
Now, two hours into the flight, she wished she'd taken a commercial plane. Sat in coach. Alone.
A faint beep indicated their descent into Teterboro was beginning. Outside, the clouds were breaking to reveal a gray, moody sky—a mirror of her chest.
Ariana cleared her throat.
Leo looked up.
"I'll get my things and head to my apartment when we land," she said, her voice polite but distant. "You don't have to drop me off."
His gaze flicked to her, cool and unreadable. "There are reporters outside your building. Still. It's not safe."
"I can handle them."
Leo closed his tablet slowly. "You're still under contract."
Her spine straightened. "Are we still pretending that matters?"
A long silence stretched between them. Then Leo stood, adjusting his cuffs with clinical precision.
"Do what you want," he said.
It shouldn't have hurt. But it did.
---
The black SUV waited at the base of the tarmac, its tinted windows gleaming under the pale sun. Ariana climbed in without waiting for Leo, clutching her coat to her chest like armor. The silence stretched all the way to Midtown.
She didn't look at him.
Outside, Manhattan wore its February gray like a permanent frown—buildings sharp against the low-hanging clouds, pedestrians bundled in layers, taxis honking in futile aggression. It felt colder than usual. Maybe because she'd just left paradise.
The SUV slowed in front of the Cross Tower. Leo's penthouse was on the top floor—a space of steel and glass and understated opulence that no longer felt like a sanctuary.
"Want me to come up?" Leo asked finally, as the vehicle stopped.
Ariana didn't look at him. "I'll be quick."
The driver opened the door, and she stepped out into the chilled air.
---
Inside the penthouse, everything was just as they'd left it. The scent of cedar and faint vanilla lingered in the air, diffused through the sleek ventilation system. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of the city below, but Ariana didn't linger.
She moved quickly, opening drawers, zipping her suitcase with practiced efficiency.
She paused briefly by the kitchen island. A single white rose sat in a slim glass vase—the same kind Leo had placed in her room the morning after the thunderstorm. She stared at it for a long moment, her expression unreadable.
Then she turned and headed to the door, suitcase rolling quietly behind her.
But as she reached the elevator, Leo stepped in from the hallway, blocking the path.
"Going somewhere?" he asked.
She looked at him evenly. "I told you—I'm going home."
"This is your home."
A sharp laugh escaped her. "No, Leo. This was a stage. A set. A showroom for the press. Not a home."
His jaw tightened, but he didn't move.
She sighed. "What do you want?"
He shoved his hands in his pockets. "What are you running from?"
"I'm not running," she snapped. "I'm escaping."
He frowned. "From me?"
Ariana's throat tightened. "From the version of myself I become around you."
His brow furrowed. "What does that mean?"
"It means I don't know if anything we've shared is real. The touches. The moments. Even that kiss." Her voice cracked slightly. "You make me feel things, Leo. Then the next minute, you disappear like none of it matters."
"I'm trying to protect you," he said quietly.
"No," she whispered. "You're trying to protect yourself."
The words hung heavy in the air.
"I can't stay here, Leo. Not like this. Not when I don't know where I stand. Not when I'm constantly being reminded that I'm just part of a deal."
His face remained unreadable, but something flickered in his eyes—pain or fear, she couldn't tell.
"I'm tired," she said, wheeling her suitcase toward the door. "Tired of pretending."
And with that, she stepped into the elevator, the doors closing slowly between them like the curtain falling on a show neither of them had wanted to end.
---
Her old apartment was dustier than she remembered.
The building was quiet, the hallway carpet still worn and patched. She turned the key in the door and stepped into the place she used to call hers—an open-plan studio with squeaky hardwood floors, one cracked window, and a kitchen the size of a shoebox.
But for the first time in weeks, she could breathe.
She dropped her bag beside the lumpy gray sofa and walked over to the window. The city was still alive out there. Still chaotic and loud and relentless. But at least it wasn't watching her.
She peeled off her coat, grabbed a blanket, and curled onto the couch. Her phone buzzed once.
Leo.
Leo: You're safe?
She stared at the message.
Then turned her phone off.
---
That night, she lay awake for hours. The city buzzed beneath her window—sirens in the distance, a dog barking somewhere, the soft hum of a neighbor's TV through the wall. But the silence in her heart was louder.
She missed him.
Not the billionaire. Not the contract. Just… him.
The man who'd held her in a storm. The man who'd kissed her forehead when he thought she was asleep. The man who, when he let himself, was kind.
She rolled over, pulling the blanket tighter.
But she didn't cry.
Not this time.
---