Page 139 of Pretend To Be Mine

Sebastian scanned the note, then handed it back. “This is a woman protecting herself. Not a woman who doesn’t care.”

“Or it’s a woman who’s done with my bullshit.”

“Did you give her any reason to think this was more than business?”

I thought about Paris. About the way I’d almost told her under that streetlamp. About all the moments I’d held back.

“You really care about her.” Sebastian’s voice held wonder. “Like, actually care. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Yeah, well. Turns out I’m capable of feeling things after all.”

“You think I’ll ever find love?” The question was uncharacteristically vulnerable. “Real love, not just whatever I’ve been doing.”

“Not the way you’re looking for it,” I said honestly. “You’re trying to bury your grief in bodies and bottles, Sebastian. That’s not going to lead you anywhere good.”

He laughed, but there was pain underneath. “Well, I’m not looking to settle down yet. Just cause you’re a sucker doesn’t mean I am.”

“Settle down?” The words came out bitter. “She’s never going to talk to me again, much less give me another chance. What if I met my one soulmate and already lost her?”

“I think you might just be drunk.”

“I’m definitely drunk. Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” I stared out the window at darkness and clouds. “I kept waiting for the right moment to tell her. Kept putting it off for one more day, one more conversation. And now she’s gone and she thinks this was all just business for me.”

“So tell her it wasn’t. Tell her when we land. We can work the rest of it out, but only you can fix things with Elizabeth.”

“She won’t see me. Won’t answer my calls.” I set down my glass, suddenly exhausted. “I fucked this up, Sebastian. Completely and totally fucked it up.”

“Then unfuck it.” He said it simply, like it was obvious. “You’re Adrian Blackwell. You can handle anything. So handle this.”

“Some things can’t be fixed with money or power or corporate strategy.”

“No. But they can be fixed with honesty and grand gestures and actually telling someone you love them.” Sebastian stood up, steadying himself against the seat. “I’m going to sleep. You should too. Tomorrow’s going to be intense.”

He disappeared toward the sleeping area, leaving me alone with the whiskey. I reclined the chair and tried to sleep, but my thoughts were all over the place. For the first time in a long time, I felt completely ill equipped to handle the situation. I faced a lot of shit on the daily, but I always had a plan. I had options and I could always figure out the right one. But with my current situation, I was at a loss.

Two hours later, I had slept maybe ten minutes, but I had sobered up enough to think straight. The plane began its descent into New York as dawn broke over the city. Friday morning. The finale was tomorrow night. One more show, one more chance to honor my father’s memory.

And somewhere in that city below, Elizabeth was hiding, hurting, believing I’d never cared about her at all. I had twenty-four hours to fix this. To salvage her reputation and make her understand that what we had was real.

No pressure.

We landed just after seven a.m. I felt like death. I was hungover, exhausted, and emotionally wrung out. But there was no time to rest or wallow.

“Go home, shower, sleep,” Briggs instructed as we disembarked. “We’re meeting at three to finalize tomorrow’s show.”

“I have some things to handle first. I’ll be there at three. I promise.” I was already heading for my car. “I just need to take care of something.”

I drove straight to the Blackwell Couture offices, Manhattan morning traffic crawling, giving me too much time to think. I couldn’t help but wonder if I was too late. Was the damage irreparable? Would Elizabeth ever forgive me?

The building was mostly empty this early, just security and a few workaholics. I took the elevator to the workshop level, betting Annika would already be there. She practically lived in that space when she was working on something important. She had flown back about twelve hours before we left.

I was right. Found her at her usual station, surrounded by fabric and coffee cups, working on what looked like final adjustments for tomorrow’s finale pieces.

“Adrian.” She looked up, took in my rumpled clothes and haggard face. “You look terrible.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Have you even been home?”