Mira didn't move for a long time.
She stood just outside Draymond Tower, phone still in her hand, the screen dimmed to black—but the words burned behind her eyes as if they had been etched there, permanent and unerasable.
Dinner. Tonight. 9 PM.
Don't run again.
The city moved around her without noticing.
Cars glided in and out of the circular drive, engines humming softly. Heels clicked against polished stone. Someone laughed nearby, sharp and careless. Fragments of conversation passed her in pieces, never fully forming.
It all felt distant. Muted. As if she were standing behind glass.
Or submerged underwater.
Sound reached her late, dulled around the edges. Light felt too sharp when it hit her eyes, like it was asking too much of her attention. She blinked slowly, trying to anchor herself in the present.
She was still.
Too still.
Her fingers tightened unconsciously around her phone, knuckles whitening. The device felt heavier than it should have, like it carried more than just messages—like it carried expectation.
Slowly, reluctantly, as if acknowledging a truth she didn't want to name, she slid the bracelet back onto her wrist.
The moon charm settled against her skin, cool and familiar.
Too familiar.
That was the problem.
She stared at it for a moment too long, watching the tiny piece of metal catch the light. Her chest tightened. Then she curled her hand into a fist, hiding it from herself, as though that could undo what had already happened.
Then she turned toward her car, her body moving before her mind could catch up.
Each step carried her farther from the lobby. Farther from the stillness inside that glass tower. Farther from the echo of his presence—of the way Cassian Draymond had said her name.
Quiet. Deliberate.
Like he'd already decided something she hadn't agreed to.
He remembered.
Worse—so did she.
Mira reached her car and wrapped her fingers around the handle, grounding herself in the solid metal. The chill seeped into her skin, real and undeniable. She inhaled slowly through her nose, counting the breath in.
Then exhaled just as carefully.
"No," she whispered, the word meant only for herself. "I'm not doing this."
She shook her head once, firmly, as if resolve alone could seal the decision. As if saying it out loud made it final.
As if resolve were ever enough.
Her phone buzzed.
Her spine went rigid.
The sound felt intrusive, sharp against the fragile quiet she'd built around herself. Her gaze dropped to the screen, dread settling heavy in her stomach before she even read the name.
Ryan Hale.
Cassian's aide.
The man who had knocked on the hotel door that morning.
The one who had looked at her like he catalogued chaos instead of reacting to it—like emotions were data points and panic was something to be filed away.
She answered before she could talk herself out of it.
Ryan Hale:
Ms. Serrano. This is confirmation of your 9 PM dinner with Mr. Draymond. A car will arrive at 8:20. Please be ready.
Her thumbs moved fast, sharper than her breathing.
Mira:
I'm not going.
The reply came almost immediately.
Ryan Hale:
Understood. I'll inform Mr. Draymond.
Relief loosened something tight and aching in her chest. She sagged slightly against the car door, her forehead tipping forward as her eyes closed for just a second.
Just a second to breathe.
Then another message appeared.
Ryan Hale:
Please note he is already aware you're lying. See you at 8:20.
Mira stared at the screen, disbelief flashing hot and sharp.
"He did not—"
She dropped her forehead against the steering wheel with a quiet, defeated thud, the sound swallowed by the car's interior.
"Is psychological warfare a job requirement over there?"
She tried one last time, fingers flying with stubborn defiance.
Mira:
Tell him I'm not coming.
There was a pause this time.
Long enough to raise her hope.
Long enough to let her imagine walking away from this entire mess.
Then—
Ryan Hale:
With respect, Ms. Serrano, I would prefer not to lose my job today. See you soon.
She let out a sharp breath that bordered on a laugh and tossed her phone onto the passenger seat like it had personally betrayed her.
By the time evening arrived, Mira had attempted every possible escape.
She claimed she felt sick.
Livia handed her medicine without blinking.
She hid her car keys.
Livia found them in under thirty seconds.
She threatened to lock herself in her room.
Livia crossed her arms and said calmly, "I will physically remove you."
Mira had never hated her more.
Now she stood in front of her mirror, staring at a version of herself she barely recognized.
The midnight-blue dress clung to her curves, bare shoulders catching the light every time she shifted. Polished. Intentional. Composed.
Like someone walking into trouble on purpose.
"This isn't a date," she told her reflection, meeting her own eyes. "This is diplomacy. A retrieval. In and out."
The woman in the mirror didn't look convinced.
Her phone chimed.
Car has arrived.
Outside, a sleek black sedan waited at the curb, dark and glossy as a warning. Ryan Hale stood beside it, immaculate in a navy suit, posture straight, expression unreadable. He checked his watch as she approached, as if her arrival had never been in doubt.
"Ms. Serrano," he said evenly. "Mr. Draymond appreciates punctuality."
Mira stopped in front of him. "Are you always this calm?"
"Yes," he replied without hesitation. "Chaos makes people unpredictable. I prefer order."
She scoffed under her breath and slid into the backseat without another word.
The ride passed in silence—thick, deliberate, pressing in from all sides. The city lights blurred past the window, reflections ghosting across the glass, stretching and collapsing as the car moved.
Then Ryan spoke, eyes still on the tablet in his hands.
"He doesn't usually do this."
Mira glanced forward. "Do what?"
"Insist," Ryan said. "Rearrange his evening. Send for someone." A pause. "So be prepared."
Her stomach tightened. "Prepared for what?"
Ryan's voice didn't change. "For Cassian Draymond when he decides he wants something."
The restaurant occupied the upper floors of the tower, glass walls framing the city in soft gold and shadow. Everything about it radiated controlled luxury—quiet, expensive, intentional.
Cassian stood when she entered.
His gaze moved over her slowly, stopping nowhere and everywhere all at once.
Not assessing.
Remembering.
"Mira," he said.
"Cassian."
Ryan inclined his head. "Your table is ready, sir."
Cassian nodded once. "Thank you. That'll be all."
The door closed behind Ryan with a soft click, sealing them inside.
"You came," Cassian said.
"Don't sound pleased," Mira replied.
"I'm not," he said calmly. "I'm relieved."
He stepped closer.
She stepped back. "Don't."
His brow lifted slightly. "Don't what?"
"Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you already decided how this ends."
His mouth curved faintly. "I have."
He reached her in two strides, his hand settling at her waist—not pulling, not demanding. Just there. Steady. Anchoring.
"You ran this morning," he said quietly. "But you're here now."
"This doesn't mean anything," she said, even as her breath shortened.
"Then tell me it didn't."
She hesitated.
"Tell me you don't remember," he added.
Silence stretched between them, taut and dangerous, humming with things neither of them said.
His thumb brushed her lower lip, light enough to steal her breath, precise enough to undo her.
"That's what I thought," he murmured. "Sit. Eat. Talk."
His hand slid to the small of her back, guiding—not forcing.
"And if you still want to walk away afterward," he said, voice steady, "I won't stop you."
Mira searched his face.
Found no lie.
Finally, she nodded.
He pulled out her chair. She sat, pulse racing, every instinct warning her she was already standing on unstable ground.
Cassian took the seat across from her, gaze steady, unreadable.
Dinner hadn't even begun.
But Mira knew—quietly, undeniably—
She wasn't walking away tonight.
Not from him.
Not from the pull between them.
Not from the consequences she had already stepped into.