The email popped up on my screen at 9:00 AM. The subject line was in bold letters: *Pinnacle Media Group Acquired*. I clicked it open and scanned the text. Then I stopped. My eyes locked on the buyer's name.

*Adonis Hunter.*

The air in the room suddenly felt too thin. I read the name three times. I didn't move for two full minutes. My hands rested on the keyboard, cold and stiff. The hum of the office chatter faded into a dull buzz. Seven years. It had been seven years since I broke his heart in a cramped Brooklyn apartment. I told him I only wanted him for his family’s money. I watched his face shatter. I did it to save him from his father’s threats, but Adonis didn't know that. He just knew I ruined him.

I opened a blank document. My fingers trembled slightly as I typed. *I, Sierra Webb, hereby resign from my position...* I stared at the black words on the white screen. My chest ached. I wanted to run. But I minimized the window. I couldn't send it. Not yet.

At 10:30 AM, we gathered in the main conference room. The murmurs died down the second the glass doors opened. Adonis walked in.

He didn't look like the boy who used to eat dollar pizza with me on the floor. He wore a sharp, dark suit that screamed money and power. He was flanked by his CFO, Marcus Vega, and a striking woman with dark, glossy hair. She clung to his arm. *Haisley Garcia,* the whisper went around the room. His fiancée.

Adonis stopped at the head of the table. His voice was flat and precise as he addressed the room. He spoke about restructuring and profit margins with boardroom perfection. His gaze swept the room. Then, it landed on me.

Two seconds. That was all it took.

His jaw tightened. A muscle leaped in his cheek. His dark eyes were cold, hard, and full of old ghosts. I didn't look away. I couldn't. I held his gaze until he broke the stare first. He moved on, continuing his speech as though I was just a piece of furniture.

An hour later, my desk phone rang. I was summoned to the executive floor.

I walked into his new glass-walled office. Adonis sat behind a massive desk. He didn't offer me a seat.

“Your editorial position has been eliminated,” he said. His voice was like ice.

My chest tightened, but I kept my tone steady. “I see.”

“You aren't fired,” he continued. He leaned back in his leather chair. “You are now my personal executive assistant.”

I blinked. “I don't have experience as an executive assistant.”

“You'll learn,” he snapped. “You will manage my calendar. Coordinate my meetings. And you will handle my social engagements with Haisley. Date nights. Weekend getaways. Everything.”

He leaned forward, his dark eyes watching my face with surgical attention. He was waiting for a crack. He wanted to see me flinch. He wanted me to beg or cry or show that it hurt to plan his dates with another woman.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Understood, Mr. Hunter.”

I turned to leave. As I did, my hand came up. I pressed my fingertips against my collarbone. It was an old habit. A small thing I did when I was trying not to fall apart. From the corner of my eye, I saw Adonis go completely still. His knuckles turned white on the edge of his desk. He remembered.

My first week was a nightmare. Adonis made sure of it.

On Wednesday, he made me change Haisley’s dinner reservation at Eleven Madison Park three times in one afternoon. I had to call the restaurant personally and apologize over and over. On Friday, he made me stand in his office and present Haisley’s weekend wardrobe preferences like I was a personal stylist.

“She prefers silk for the evening,” Adonis said, his eyes burning into mine. “Make sure the boutique sends the red dress.”

“Of course,” I said smoothly. I wrote it down in my notebook.

He hated it. He hated my calm voice and my blank face. He wanted me to break. But Haisley was watching me from the sofa. She had sharp, perceptive eyes. She saw me carefully fold my hands behind my back to stop them from shaking. She didn't look at me with a winner's triumph. She looked at me like she knew I was grieving.

On Monday, I used my lunch break to go to Chinatown. The small clinic smelled like bleach and old magazines. I sat in a hard plastic chair until Dr. Naomi Osei called my name.

She closed the door to the examination room and looked at me. Her face was very serious. “Sierra, the biopsy results came back.”

My hands gripped the edge of the paper-lined table. “Tell me.”

“It's stomach cancer,” she said quietly. “Stage two. It's aggressive.”

The room spun. The hum of the fluorescent lights suddenly sounded deafening. A cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck.

“We need to start treatment immediately,” Dr. Osei continued. She handed me a thick folder. “I've outlined the protocol. It will be intense. And it will be very expensive.”

I opened the folder. The numbers on the page blurred. It was a staggering amount. Money I didn't have. Money I couldn't ask for.

I sat there for exactly ten minutes. I let myself feel the terror. I let the tears prick my eyes. Then, I took a deep breath, pressed my fingers to my collarbone, and pushed it all down.

“Okay,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Schedule my first chemotherapy for my next day off.”

I thanked her, took the folder, and walked out into the busy street. The sun was shining. Cars were honking. People were laughing. I was dying.

I checked my watch. 1:45 PM. I hailed a cab and headed back to the office. I walked into Adonis's suite right on time. I sat down across from him for his 2:00 PM calendar review.

“You're late,” he muttered, not looking up from his tablet.

“I'm right on time, Mr. Hunter,” I replied, opening my notebook. “Your dinner with Haisley is at eight. The car will be downstairs at seven-thirty.”

He finally looked up. His eyes were dark and full of a quiet, furious storm. He wanted me to fight back. But I just smiled slightly. I wouldn't let him see my pain. I only had so much time left, and I was going to spend every second of it right here, near him. Even if he hated me.

That night, I sat on the edge of my bed with my laptop balanced on my knees. The apartment was quiet. The fridge hummed. A siren wailed somewhere far away. I typed "bartending jobs Meatpacking District" into the search bar and scrolled through the results.

Three places were hiring. I applied to all of them.

A lounge called Lumen called me back the next morning. The manager, a tired-looking woman named Gina, asked if I had experience. I told her I'd bartended through college. She asked when I could start. I said tomorrow.

"Late shift," she said. "Nine to two. Four nights a week. Cash tips plus hourly."

"Perfect," I said.

I started two days later.

The routine was simple. I left Pinnacle at six, took the subway downtown, changed into a black top in the Lumen bathroom, and poured drinks until two in the morning. Then I took a cab home, slept four hours, showered, and walked back into Adonis's office by eight with his coffee and his schedule.

No one noticed. No one asked why I looked tired. People in New York always look tired.

On Saturday, I went to Memorial Sloan Kettering for my first chemotherapy session. The infusion room was bright and cold. There were six chairs in a row, separated by thin curtains. A nurse named Patty found my vein on the first try and hooked up the IV. The bag hung above me, clear liquid dripping slow and steady into my arm.

I sat there for three hours. My phone buzzed every fifteen minutes. Adonis's emails. Calendar changes. A request for a revised seating chart for some investor dinner.

I answered every one. My fingers moved across the screen while the poison moved through my blood. At one point, Patty glanced at my phone and raised an eyebrow.

"Work," I said.

She shook her head. "Honey, you're allowed to rest."

I smiled at her. The small, automatic smile I had perfected over the years. "I'm fine."

I wasn't fine. The nausea hit me on the cab ride home. I made it to my bathroom just in time. I knelt on the tile floor and threw up until there was nothing left. Then I brushed my teeth, drank a glass of water, and went to bed.

Monday morning, I was back at my desk.

---

On Wednesday, Adonis called me into his office. He was standing by the window with his back to me. Haisley sat on the leather sofa, legs crossed, scrolling through her phone.

"Sit down," he said without turning around.

I sat.

"Haisley and I have an anniversary coming up," he said. He turned to face me. His expression was flat. Controlled. "I want you to coordinate a dinner. Private room at Le Bernardin. Flowers. Candles. The full thing."

"Of course," I said. I opened my notebook.

"And a card," he added. His eyes locked onto mine. "Handwritten. In your handwriting."

I looked up. "My handwriting?"

"Haisley prefers a personal touch." His voice was smooth and deliberate. "Write something warm. Romantic. You can manage that, can't you?"

The room was very quiet. Haisley had stopped scrolling. She was watching me with those sharp, careful eyes.

I held his gaze. "What would you like it to say?"

He tilted his head slightly. "Use your imagination."

I wrote the card that afternoon at my desk. I picked a cream-colored card from the stationery drawer and uncapped a pen. My hand was steady. I made sure of it.

*To Haisley — You make every room brighter. Here's to many more. — Adonis*

I stared at the words. My own handwriting, forming someone else's love. I slid the card into an envelope and sealed it.

That night at Lumen, I poured a double bourbon for a man in a gray suit who didn't look at me once. I set it on the bar and wiped down the counter. The music was loud. The lights were low. I poured myself a glass of water and drank it slowly.

I didn't think about the card. I didn't think about Adonis's voice saying *use your imagination*. I didn't think about how his jaw had tightened when I didn't flinch.

Or I tried not to.

The bourbon man left a twenty-dollar tip. I folded it into my apron and moved on to the next order.

---

Friday afternoon, I walked out of the Pinnacle building at six o'clock. The air was warm. The sidewalk was crowded with people heading home or heading out. I pulled my bag higher on my shoulder and turned toward the subway.

"SI!"

The voice hit me like sunlight. Loud, bright, and completely uncontainable. I spun around.

Kylian Robinson was standing on the sidewalk with his arms wide open and a grin that took up his entire face. He was taller than the last time I'd seen him. Broader in the shoulders. But the grin was the same — the same one he'd had at fourteen when he won his first local tournament and called me from the gaming café, shouting so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear.

He crossed the distance in three steps and lifted me clean off the ground.

"Kylian!" I gasped. "Put me down, you're going to break my —"

"You weigh nothing," he said, squeezing me tighter. "Have you been eating? You look skinny. Are you eating?"

He set me down and held me at arm's length, studying my face with the earnest concern of someone who had never learned to hide what he felt.

"I'm eating," I said. "What are you doing here? I thought you had qualifiers in Dallas."

"Break week," he said. He threw an arm around my shoulders and started walking, pulling me along. "Three days off before the next bracket. I took the first flight out. I wanted to see you. Also, Si, you will not believe what happened at regionals —"

And he was off. Talking at full speed about his team's draft strategy and a clutch play he made in the semifinal and how his coach said he had the best reaction time in the league. His voice bounced off the buildings. People on the sidewalk turned to look at us.

I laughed. A real laugh. It came up from somewhere deep in my chest, somewhere I had forgotten existed. It felt strange in my throat, like a muscle I hadn't used in weeks. Kylian heard it and grinned wider.

"There she is," he said. "I knew you were in there somewhere."

He pulled me closer and pressed his cheek against the top of my head. It was the easy, unthinking affection of someone who had grown up trusting me completely. I closed my eyes for half a second and let myself feel it.

Two floors above us, behind the tinted glass of his corner office, Adonis Hunter stood at the window.

I didn't know he was there. I didn't see his hand tighten around his phone until the case creaked. I didn't see the way his body went perfectly, dangerously still — no movement, no expression, just that focused quiet his staff had learned to read as the signal to leave the room.

He watched Kylian's arm around my shoulders. He watched the boy lean his head against mine. He heard nothing — the glass was too thick — but he saw my mouth open in laughter, and something behind his eyes shifted.

He didn't recognize Kylian. He didn't see the fourteen-year-old kid we'd once taken to his first esports camp together, pooling our grocery money to cover the registration fee. He saw a young man. Tall. Confident. Touching me like he had every right to.

He saw the nickname on Kylian's lips — *Si* — a name no one else used.

Adonis stood at that window for a long time after we disappeared around the corner. Marcus Vega knocked twice. Adonis didn't answer. Marcus opened the door, saw his boss's face, and quietly closed it again.

Two days later, my bones ached from the late shift at Lumen. The chemo was still humming in my veins, making my stomach roll with constant, low-grade nausea. I poured Adonis's black coffee and carried it into his glass-walled office.

He was already at his desk, staring out the window. I set the mug down next to a thick, leather-bound folder. The bold letters on the cover caught my eye. *Acquisition: Apex Esports Organization*.

I blinked. Apex was Kylian's team. I didn't think much of it. A tech mogul buying a gaming company wasn't unusual. It was just business.

An hour later, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I stepped into the empty breakroom and answered.

"Si, I'm dying," Kylian groaned. He sounded exhausted.

"What happened?" I asked, keeping my voice low.

"Management changed. Some new investor bought a controlling stake yesterday. They just handed us a new schedule. It's brutal, Si. Three time zones in two weeks. Tokyo, Berlin, then L.A. Back-to-back qualifiers. I won't have a free day until November."

I frowned. "That's awful. But you wanted to play in the big leagues."

"Yeah, but this is a meat grinder," he complained. "I won't even have time to call you. If I'm not playing, I'll be sleeping on a plane."

"Just focus on the games," I said softly. "I'll be here when you get back."

I hung up. I looked through the glass walls of the breakroom. Adonis was standing by his desk. He was looking right at me. His face was perfectly blank. Cold. He tapped a silver pen against the Apex file. A chill ran down my spine. But I brushed it off. It had to be a coincidence.

On Friday, Adonis scheduled a team lunch at a high-end steakhouse in Midtown.

The restaurant was dark and loud. It smelled like roasted garlic, seared meat, and expensive red wine. The heavy scents hit the back of my throat, making my stomach churn. I swallowed hard and focused on breathing through my mouth.

Adonis sat at the head of the large leather booth. He made me sit on his immediate right. He placed Haisley right next to me. Marcus Vega and three vice presidents filled the rest of the table.

The conversation was strictly business. Algorithms. Profit margins. Quarter-three projections. I kept my eyes on my plate. I pushed a piece of asparagus around with my fork. I was so tired.

Suddenly, the table went quiet. Adonis leaned back in his chair. He swirled the dark wine in his glass. His eyes locked onto me.

"Sierra," he said.

His voice was smooth, but it cut through the room like a blade.

I looked up. "Yes, Mr. Hunter?"

He reached over and placed his hand over Haisley's. She didn't flinch, but her fingers stayed stiff under his palm.

"I need a recommendation," he said. The temperature in his voice dropped to freezing. "I'm looking for a jeweler for an engagement ring. Since you seem to have good taste in things that don't belong to you, I thought you might know a place."

The silence in the booth became suffocating. Marcus stared down at his water glass. One of the VPs shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Under the table, my hands curled into tight fists. My nails bit into my palms until they ached. The heat rushed to my chest. He wanted me to break. He wanted me to cry in front of his executives. He wanted to see the regret bleed out of me.

I took a slow, shallow breath. I kept my face perfectly still.

"Of course," I said evenly. "Cartier on Fifth Avenue offers excellent bespoke services. Their custom pieces usually start around fifty thousand. If you prefer vintage cuts, Fred Leighton on Madison is exceptional. I can arrange a private viewing for you and Ms. Garcia this afternoon."

I didn't blink. I didn't look away.

Adonis's jaw tightened. A muscle leaped in his cheek. His dark eyes burned into mine. He hated my answer. He hated my calm voice. He hated that I didn't shatter for him.

Beside me, Haisley picked up her water glass. She took a long, slow sip. She didn't look at Adonis. She just watched the ice clink against the crystal.

When lunch finally ended, the executives stood up to leave. I excused myself and walked quickly to the restroom. I needed a minute. My stomach was twisting into painful, sharp knots.

I pushed through the heavy oak door. The bathroom was empty. It was quiet, with marble sinks and soft, warm lighting. I walked over to the counter and gripped the cool stone edge. I closed my eyes and breathed through the nausea.

The door opened. Heels clicked sharply against the tile.

I opened my eyes. Haisley walked over to the sink next to mine. She set her designer clutch on the counter. She didn't offer me a sympathetic smile. She wasn't that kind of woman.

She turned on the tap and washed her hands.

"You know," she said, almost idly. "For a man who is supposedly madly in love with me, he's remarkably hands-off."

I froze. I looked at her in the mirror.

She pulled a paper towel from the dispenser and patted her hands dry. "He hasn't kissed me once. Not even for the cameras. Not even when the paparazzi are practically sitting on our laps."

My heart gave a strange, hard thump. "I don't see how that is my business, Ms. Garcia."

"Call me Haisley," she said. She pulled a tube of red lipstick from her clutch. "And I'm just making an observation. It's professionally inconvenient for me. It makes the whole 'swept off our feet' narrative very hard to sell to the press."

She applied the lipstick with practiced precision. She popped her lips together. Then, she met my eyes in the mirror. She raised one perfectly arched eyebrow.

It wasn't a complaint. It was a hint. A massive, glaring hint.

She dropped the lipstick back into her clutch and snapped it shut. "Have a good afternoon, Sierra."

She walked out. The heavy door swung shut behind her.

I stood there alone. The silence rushed back into the room. I stared at my reflection. My skin was pale. There were dark circles under my eyes. I looked sick. I looked like a ghost of the girl Adonis used to love.

*He hasn't kissed me once.*

I pressed my fingertips hard against my collarbone. I couldn't let myself hope. Hope was dangerous. Hope would make the dying hurt more. But as I stood under the harsh bathroom lights, a tiny, stubborn spark ignited in my chest. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't put it out.