PART 4: Shadows of the Past
PART 4: Shadows of the Past
Ghostly text messages disrupt hard-earned peace.
The acquisition of the Chicago port authority was a masterclass in corporate warfare, and Julian and I spent three consecutive days locked in a secure conference room alongside a dozen corporate attorneys.
We won the bid by noon on Friday.
As the legal teams erupted into handshakes and celebratory back-slaps, I slipped out of the conference room to find some quiet air, stepping onto the private executive balcony that overlooked the Boston harbor.
The spring wind was crisp, biting into my face and carrying the sharp, salty scent of the ocean.
I leaned against the glass railing, closing my eyes and breathing in the cool air, feeling the profound, exhausting thrill of a victory I had earned entirely on my own merits.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out, expecting a Slack message from the legal team.
Instead, it was an unknown mobile number.
I tapped the screen.
“Eve? It’s Preston. I know it’s been a while, but... I made a massive mistake. My new apartment in New York feels empty without you. Can we talk?”
A cold wave of disbelief washed over me.
Three months of absolute silence.
Three months of rebuilding my entire existence from the ashes of a forty-second voice message.
And now, driven by God-knows-what lonely impulse, he thought he could just slide back into my DMs like a missed software update.
I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the Block Contact button.
“Trouble?”
I jumped slightly, turning around.
Julian had stepped out onto the balcony, his suit jacket unbuttoned, his tie slightly loosened at the collar.
He was holding two paper cups of coffee, extending one toward me with a questioning glance.
I took the cup, my hand trembling ever so slightly as I shoved the phone back into my coat pocket.
“Just spam,” I lied, forcing a tight smile.
Julian didn't look convinced.
His gray eyes narrowed, scanning my face with that unnerving tactical precision that could dissect a balance sheet in three seconds.
“Spam doesn't usually make the color drain entirely from a person's face, Eve,” he noted quietly, leaning against the railing beside me. “Who was it?”
I let out a long, shaky sigh, realizing there was no point lying to a man who could probably hack my cell provider if he felt like it.
“Preston,” I muttered, staring down at the dark coffee in my cup. “He texted. Said he made a mistake. Said his apartment feels empty.”
The silence on the balcony stretched out for several heartbeats.
The wind howled softly between the glass towers.
When I finally looked up at Julian, his jaw was clenched so tightly that the muscles along his cheekbones stood out in sharp relief.
May you like
The cold, untouchable billionaire facade had completely vanished, replaced by a quiet, simmering fury.
“Do you want me to make sure he never texts you again?” Julian asked, his voice dropping into a register so dangerously calm that it made my breath hitch. “Because with one phone call, I can ensure his career in logistics is permanently relocated to a remote mining outpost in northern Alaska.”
