Mia's POV
Fifty-nine days.
I'd counted each one like a confession I couldn't admit. Days filled with Eric's bright laughter, his sticky fingers tugging at my sleeves, and quiet evenings where his small frame curled beside me on the couch. The apartment had felt full, even with one person gone.
But his absence lingered.
Ryan Saint.
He had vanished to France with nothing but a cold nod and the command to care for his nephew. No check-ins. No texts. No phone calls.
No explanation.
So why did the sound of that familiar low-engine hum downstairs make my stomach twist?
I rushed to the window.
The Mercedes-AMG GT 63 S E PERFORMANCE glided to a smooth stop in front of the building. Mr. Jackson stepped out first. Then Ryan emerged, tall and effortlessly magnetic, black shades covering his silver eyes, his jaw sharp enough to make me press my thighs together without thinking.
Damn him.
He looked even more dangerous than before—sleeker, harder. Like France had only refined the edges of a man already carved from stone.
"Uncle Ryan!" Eric's scream startled me.
He threw the door open before I could stop him and launched himself at Ryan's legs. Ryan caught him midair, one arm, like it cost him nothing.
Then… he looked up at me.
Our eyes locked.
And in that instant, the heat between us returned like a slap.
---
Ryan's POV
She was still here.
Mia stood barefoot in the living room, her curves wrapped in soft cotton, her hair slightly messy, and that flushed look on her cheeks that always made me imagine things I shouldn't.
Things I really shouldn't.
My gaze dropped before I could stop it. She didn't move. Neither did I. The tension wrapped around us like a taut thread, pulling tighter with every second.
"I didn't think you'd still be here," I said as I stepped inside.
"I didn't stay for you," she answered too quickly. "Eric needed someone."
But her voice cracked at the end.
Interesting.
"I see my absence gave you time to adjust to domestic life."
Her eyes narrowed. "Someone had to keep it together."
I took a slow step toward her. She took a half-step back—just one. Not enough to get away, but enough to let me know she noticed how close we were.
I reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
She froze.
"You look... soft," I murmured.
"And you look like trouble," she snapped, breath hitching.
I smirked. "You've missed me."
"No."
I leaned in closer, my voice brushing her neck. "Liar."
Before either of us could speak again, Eric shouted from his room.
"Uncle Ryan! My chocolates!"
Mia exhaled hard and turned away.
But her scent lingered—warm, lavender, and something that had nothing to do with innocence.
---
Later That Night
I stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped low on my hips, hair wet, skin still humming from the heat. I didn't sleep well after business trips. I needed a distraction.
My phone lit up. Not Mia.
Diane.
> I missed you. Should I come over?
I stared at the screen for a beat too long before typing:
> Suite 47. Hotel Saint.
She sent a single heart emoji in response.
---
Mia's POV
The lights in Ryan's room clicked off, but I knew he wasn't asleep.
Not ten minutes later, I saw the security cam feed by the door flicker on.
A woman entered.
Tall. Elegant. Legs for days. Red lipstick that was made to smudge.
She didn't knock.
She had a key.
A hard pang pressed against my chest, and I hated it. Hated that I cared. Hated that I wanted to storm in there and ask him what the hell he thought this was.
But I wasn't his wife.
Not really.
Just a contract.
So I turned off the lights, pressed my hand against the wall between us, and tried to forget the soft, sultry moan that echoed through the penthouse ten minutes later.
And failed.