Lyla Monroe (Nova Kingsley)
“So…” I stirred the straw in my iced tea, still slightly stunned. “What brings you all the way to California, Mr. Steele?”
I kept my tone light, casual—even though my heart hadn’t stopped racing since I saw him at the boardroom door like some dramatic movie scene. He stood there in that tailored navy suit, looking like sin and secrets, and I nearly forgot the words to my own presentation.
Now we were sitting across from each other at a quiet little café just down the street from my office. A small table between us, plates of untouched food on either side. The only thing I could focus on was him.
“I’m going to be honest with you, Nova,” he said, leaning forward, his fingers tracing the rim of his coffee cup. “My life’s been falling apart since you left.”
I raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Oh really?”
He nodded. “I didn’t know you were the one in charge of my entire day-to-day. Meetings, calls, briefings, even my damn sandwich order. I thought the team had it under control.”
I let out a short chuckle. “I was the team.”
“Yeah,” he smiled, just a little. “You were. And I didn’t realize how much I depended on you—not just at work.”
I looked at him then, curious. He wasn’t the cold, emotionless Luca Steele I once knew. Something in his eyes was softer. Honest. Raw.
“It’s not just about the calendar,” he added. “Things with you have always felt… different.”
I blinked. “Different how?”
He looked down for a second, then back at me. “Like easier. Like I could be a version of myself that wasn’t always guarded. You challenge me, Nova. You don’t let me hide. And I need that. Maybe we didn’t have the best start—hell, we were practically enemies in the beginning—but I think we owe ourselves something better.”
I swallowed hard, not expecting that level of vulnerability.
“Maybe,” he continued, “we could start over. Give it a real chance. Not because of a contract. Not because of our parents. Just… us.”
I hesitated. “Why do you want to start over?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Because I know what kind of love you’re looking for. The kind that makes you feel chosen, seen, safe. And I want to try to give that to you. Not perfectly. But genuinely.”
I couldn’t look away. His voice was steady, his words clear. No games. No sarcasm.
“You make life feel less… cold,” he said, his voice lowering. “Even when I don’t say it, I feel it. You’re not like anyone else. Being with you feels like breathing easier. Like maybe I’m not broken after all.”
I felt something tighten in my chest.
“I want to believe you,” I said quietly. “But how do I know I can trust you? That you won’t shut me out again, or act like I mean nothing the next time you get scared?”
He looked me dead in the eyes. “You don’t.”
I blinked.
“That’s the gamble,” he said gently. “That’s what love is, isn’t it? Giving someone your heart and praying they don’t fuck it up. It’s a risk—for both of us.”
The air between us went still.
He was right.
Love wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t certain. It was showing up, choosing each other, again and again, even when it was scary.
I took a slow breath. “Alright. Do you… want to have dinner tonight?”
His brows lifted. “Dinner?”
“I’ll ask Delilah to make something for us,” I said, smiling softly. “Home-cooked. Not takeout.”
He leaned back in his chair, nodding. “That sounds great.”
I hesitated, then added, “There’s also something I want to tell you tonight.”
He tilted his head. “Something serious?”
“Kind of,” I said, picking at my napkin. “But I think… it’s better if I say it over dinner.”
His gaze lingered on me. “Should I be worried?”
My cheeks warmed, but I played it cool.
“Not really, I will see you tonight,” I said, standing.
“I’m looking forward to it.”
