Painful Truth

~Anna's Pov

The words hit like a punch. "Last week? And you didn't tell me?"

"It wasn't a big deal."

"My mother called, and you decided not to tell me."

He moves closer, but I step back, hip knocking his desk. "Anna, please. Let me explain."

"Explain what? How you've been lying to me?"

"I haven't been talking to her. She sent one email. One." He flattens a cuff, the gesture tight and controlled. "I didn't respond."

"But you didn't tell me either."

"Your birthday's tomorrow. I didn't want to ruin—"

"Oh, so now my birthday is your excuse."

Silence stretches between us. I can hear my heartbeat, too loud in the quiet office. Through the frosted glass, Candice’s silhouette sits very still.

"What exactly did her email say?" I finally ask.

His jaw tightens. "Subject line was ‘Family Dynamics.’ "She attached a Getty image from the Henderson gala two weeks ago."

"What about it?"

"The shot where you straightened my tie on the carpet." His voice drops. "She circled your hand on my sleeve. Wrote: ‘Intimate. A jury would think so.’"

My stomach drops. "She attached it?"

"With the caption." He swallows. "She’s making it sound like evidence."

"Evidence of what?"

"That things have changed between us."

The admission hangs in the air. I think about that night—how natural it felt to fix his tie, how he'd gone still under my touch, how the cameras had flashed around us.

"How did she even know to reach you now?" I ask.

"Assistants get contacted. It happens." His tone says there’s more he’s not saying.

"What else did she write?"

"That she’s ‘proud’ of how close we are. That she always knew you’d choose me over her." His mouth twists. "She’s trying to make it sound like I stole you."

"You didn’t steal me. She left me."

"I know. You know. But Vanessa..." He shakes his head. "She ruin things."

I step closer anyway. "Does it matter?"

"Does what matter?"

"What she thinks. What anyone thinks." Another step. "Because you’re right, things have changed between us."

"Anna—" He retreats a bit, and hits the desk behind him.

"Tell me to step away," I whisper.

He doesn’t. His eyes flick to my mouth and back.

"Tell me this is wrong," I say, close enough to feel the heat off his skin.

"I can’t," he breathes.

His hand comes up, stops just shy of my cheekbone. The Patek on his wrist catches the light; its tick-tick is suddenly the only sound in the room.

The intercom buzzes like a fire alarm, ruining the moment.

James jerks back so hard he almost stumbles. "Christ."

"Mr. Reynolds," Candice’s voice fills the room. "Laurent confirmed eight o’clock tomorrow. Do you want me to keep the third name on the reservation?"

My blood goes cold. "Third name?"

James’s expression shifts from desire to confusion. "I didn’t add a third."

"Shall I call them back?"

He clears his throat. "No. Leave it for now."

The intercom clicks off. He exhales through his nose.

"Why not cancel?" I ask.

"If we change it tonight, whoever added her will know we’re onto them," he says quietly.

"You should go," he adds, voice carefully controlled. "We’ll talk tonight."

"James—"

"Please, Anna. I need to think."

I practically run from his office. As I pass Candice’s desk, she tilts her screen down. Her smile is flawless.

"Have a good day, Anna."

"You too," I manage.

The elevator ride feels endless. My reflection in the mirrored walls shows flushed cheeks, bright eyes, lips parted like I’m still waiting for a kiss that didn’t happen.

—

The house feels different when I get home. Colder. Bigger.

I shower, change, start dinner. My fingers keep drifting to my cheek where his hand almost was.

My phone buzzes. Text from James: Working late. Don’t wait up.

Coward.

Fine. Two can play. Except I’m still making his favorite dinner like an idiot. Honey garlic salmon, roasted vegetables. I pour two glasses of wine, stare at his, then tip it into the sink. The smell rises sharp and sweet.

"Your liver before my nerves," I tell the empty kitchen.

It’s past nine when I hear his car in the driveway.

"Anna?" His voice is careful, testing.

"Kitchen," I call, not trusting my face yet.

He appears in the doorway, tie gone, sleeves rolled up. He looks wrung out.

"You made dinner."

"It’s cold now."

"I’m sorry. I should have—"

"Avoided me better? Your meeting ended at 4:07. I called Candice.’"

He has the grace to look guilty. "I was."

"Think faster."

He steps in but keeps the island between us. Safe distance. He loosens the strap of his watch like it’s cutting off his breath.

"And?" I said "What did you conclude in five hours?"

"That I’m losing my mind."

"Because you almost kissed me?"

"Because I wanted to." His grip tightened. "Because I still want to."

The admission lands between us, raw and heavy.

"You were going to kiss me," I say.

"I know."

"I wanted you to."

"Anna, please… let's stop this—"

"I still want you to."

He moves, fast. One second he’s across the kitchen; the next he’s in front of me, hands braced on either side of the counter. He boxes himself in, like he’s the one who needs containing.

"You don’t know what you’re saying."

"I’m an adult now, James. I know exactly what I’m saying."

"This is wrong."

"Then why are you looking at my mouth?"

He makes a low sound. "Because I’m selfish."

"How long?" I ask, quiet.

"How long what?"

"How long have you felt this way?"

His shoulders tense. "Long enough to know I should stay away from you."

"But you don’t."

"No," he says, voice rough. "I don’t."

I step into his space. "Tell me this is wrong."

"I can’t."

"Then hear me. I’m not a child. I’m your stepdaughter, yes, but I am also a woman who gets to choose. I choose truth."

His breathing changes. "Anna—"

"Tomorrow is my birthday."

"I know."

"I’m going to ask you for something." I hold his gaze. "I want you to say yes."

"Anna, that’s—"

"Good. I'm tired."

I head toward the stairs, then pause at the doorway without turning around.

"Sweet dreams, James."