Page 63 of His Ruthless Claim

The irony doesn't escape me. I finally learned to let go, only to find myself more consumed than ever.

30

SKYE

The boutique feels hollow without his presence lingering in the corners. I adjust a silk blouse on a mannequin, remembering how Luca's ice-blue eyes would track my movements as I arranged displays. My fingers smooth over the delicate fabric, but the satisfaction of a perfect presentation is missing.

"That shade would suit you." A customer's voice breaks through my thoughts.

I paste on my professional smile, the one that's carried me through these past weeks. "The emerald brings out warm undertones in any complexion." The words flow automatically, but my mind drifts to Luca's subtle nod of approval when I'd wear something he liked.

After the customer leaves, I settle behind the counter to review inventory sheets. Numbers blur together as I recall discovering the truth in grainy security footage - Luca orchestrating the "attack" that drove me into his home. The manipulation burns, yet I miss the weight of his gaze, the mint on his breath when he'd lean close, the way his presence filled every room.

My phone buzzes with texts from Jazz asking about drinks tonight. I consider it, weighing my options. I've been avoiding being home alone too much, and I think they know back.

My apartment is safe. Comfortable. Empty. Each night I curl up on my designer couch, wrapped in cashmere that costs more than most people's rent, and try to convince myself this space is enough. But the silence echoes with memories of his controlled voice, the rare moments his composure would crack when I'd tease him, the way he'd watch me like I was a puzzle he needed to solve.

I run my fingertips over the nose stud he used to trace with his thumb, remembering how even that small touch felt charged with intensity. The worst part isn't missing his presence - it's missing the version of myself who came alive under his attention.

Knowing I need to get out of my head, I text Jazz back, agreeing to join them at the Vault. Maybe booze can numb what nothing else can.

The bell chimes again and Maria's tall frame glides through the door, her brown curls bouncing with each step. Her presence has become as regular as inventory counts, and I'm grateful for it.

"Brought you a latte." She sets the cup beside my paperwork, her warm eyes scanning my face.

I take a sip, letting the familiar routine wash over me. "You don't have to keep checking on me."

"Who said I'm checking?" Maria perches on the counter, her designer boots swinging. "Maybe I just like the company. Plus, someone needs to tell you how my emotionally stunted cousin spent an hour yesterday staring at that vintage Chanel dress in your window display."

My hand stills on the inventory sheet. "Maria-"

"I know, I know. Space." She holds up her hands. "But you should see him, Skye. He's actually talking to people now. Like, full sentences about feelings and shit. He really misses you, and I know he wants to be better. He apologized to Mickey yesterday and the poor guy nearly killed over."

The image of Luca - cool, controlled Luca - stumbling through an apology almost makes me smile. Almost.

"He's trying," Maria continues, her voice softening. "You know how he is - everything's a strategy, a chess move. But he's learning there's a difference between protecting someone and controlling them."

I trace the rim of my coffee cup. "He orchestrated an attack on my business, Maria. He manipulated me into his bed."

"Into his life," she corrects. "The bed was all you, honey. And yeah, he fucked up. But you're the first person who's made him realize that perfect control isn't the answer to everything."

I remember how his composure would crack when I'd challenge him, those rare moments when real emotion would flash through his ice-blue eyes. "He needs to figure himself out first."

"Maybe." Maria slides off the counter. "But just so you know - he's donated to three different trauma recovery centers this month. Anonymous, of course. Baby steps, right?"

The bassfrom The Vault's speakers thrums through my bones as I watch Jazz move through the VIP section. Even off-duty, she commands attention, her curls bouncing as she delivers another round of drinks to our table.

"Alright, spill." Kendra's manicured finger taps the table. "You've been staring at that whiskey like it holds the secrets of the universe."

Mikayla leans forward, her sweet face pinched with concern. "Is it about the boutique? Has there been more trouble?"

Jazz slides into the booth beside me, her deep brown eyes knowing. "It's about him."

"The ice prince himself." Kendra whistles. "Girl, that man is fine as hell but watching him gives me chills. No offense."

I trace the rim of my glass. "He's not what everyone thinks."

"No?" Jazz's voice carries an edge of understanding that makes me look up. "Let me guess - he showed you glimpses of something real beneath all that control. Made you feel special because you could crack that perfect facade."

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