Chapter 21: The Return
The plane touched down at JFK at 6:47 on Sunday evening.
Reality crashed over them like a wave designed to drown.
Paris had been a dream. Thirty-six hours of Jordan asking questions and actually listening to the answers. Learning that Martina had wanted to be a novelist before business school.
That her mother had died when she was sixteen, and she’d raised her younger brother essentially alone.
That she volunteered at a women’s shelter in Brooklyn every other Saturday. The Saturdays Jordan had assumed she spent doing nothing important because he’d never bothered to ask.
Thirty-six hours of walking along the Seine at midnight. Eating croissants in tiny cafes where no one knew who Jordan Blackwell was. Visiting bookstores where Martina’s face lit up like a child’s on Christmas morning.
Thirty-six hours of Jordan holding her hand. Kissing her like she was precious. Treating her like she mattered.
Thirty-six hours of pretending.
Because now they were back in New York. The Mercedes was waiting. Jordan’s phone had forty-seven messages. Martina’s had twenty-three.
The real world didn’t care that something fragile and beautiful had begun to grow between them in Paris.
The real world only cared about quarterly reports and hostile takeovers.
And the fact that Marcus Ashford had sent Martina eleven texts over the weekend.
Each one a reminder that he was waiting. Patient. Confident.
For her to make the smart choice.
“I’ll drop you home first,” Jordan said as they slid into the back seat.
The privacy screen already up, separating them from the driver.
“Thank you,” Martina said quietly.
The distance in her voice made Jordan’s chest constrict.
They’d spent the flight in silence. Both pretending to work. Both hyperaware that every mile brought them closer to the moment when decisions would have to be made.
Now, watching Manhattan rise up around them through tinted windows, Jordan felt panic claw at his throat.
He was losing her.
He could feel it happening. Could see it in the way she’d pulled back into herself. Rebuilding the professional walls that had crumbled in Paris.
In thirty-six hours, he’d shown her a version of himself that was real and vulnerable and honest.
But now, surrounded by the trappings of his power—the luxury car, the designer suit, the phone full of people demanding his attention—he could see her remembering why she’d been invisible for five years.
Because in his world, power mattered more than people.
And Martina deserved better.
