Page 67 of Forbidden Fruit

Mother glances at her watch. "Now, tell us about this event you're planning for the Whitaker Foundation. I hear they've increased their budget."

And just like that, we move on. No more questions about Clive, no inquiries about my feelings or how this all came to be. Just business as usual in the Jamison household.

As I drive back to my apartment later that night, I call Clive.

"How did it go?" he asks, his deep voice instantly calming my nerves.

"Surprisingly well," I say, still somewhat shocked. "They actually prefer you to Jack."

He chuckles. "Smart people, your parents."

"They're pragmatic. Your name and company impress them."

"And here I thought it was my charming personality and rugged good looks."

I laugh, feeling the tension of the evening finally leaving my body. "That part they don't know about yet."

"When will I meet them?" he asks, and I can hear the smile in his voice.

"Soon," I say, navigating through the nighttime traffic. "Though I should warn you—dinner with the Jamisons is less a meal and more a strategic business meeting with food."

"I've survived hostile takeovers and board meetings with Russian oligarchs. I think I can handle your parents."

His confidence makes me smile. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

When I get back to my apartment, I kick off my heels and curl up on the couch, my mind still processing the evening. My phone buzzes with a text from Jack.

I’m humiliated. All my friends have heard that you’ve hooked up with my stepfather.

I stare at the message, anger bubbling up inside me. After a moment, I type:

That’s not my problem. I haven’t announced anything. If they know, it’s because you or your mother told them.

Three dots appear, disappear, then reappear.

This isn't over, Becca. You'll regret this.

I block his number without responding. I'm done letting Jack Hanson make me feel small.

The next morning, I wake to the sound of my buzzer. When I check the intercom camera, I see a delivery man holding a massive arrangement of peonies—my favorite.

"From Mr. Bishop," the delivery man says when I open the door.

The card reads:

Counting the days until you're home with me. -C

Home. Such a simple word, yet it fills me with warmth. My apartment has never felt like home. My parents' house certainly never did. But when I think of Clive's penthouse, with its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park and bookshelves filled with well-read classics, something inside me settles.

At work, I throw myself into planning the Whitaker Foundation gala. It's my biggest event yet—a thousand guests, a five-course meal, and a silent auction expected to raise millions for children's literacy.

"Becca, there's someone here to see you," my assistant Lucy says, poking her head into my office around noon.

Before I can ask who, Jack strides in, dressed in a tailored suit, and holding a small bouquet of wilting roses. It’s a fantastic metaphor for the state of our previous relationship.

"You need to leave," I say, standing up. "I'm working. I won’t have you sabotaging my livelihood."

Lucy hovers at the door, clearly sensing the tension. I give her a subtle nod, and she backs out, closing the door behind her.

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