Page 73 of Forbidden Fruit

"I'll talk to Jack," she says after a pause. "Make him understand."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me. I'm not doing this for you." Her voice hardens again. "I'm protecting my son from your vendetta."

The call ends, and I set my phone down, exhaling slowly. Kay will never see Jack clearly. To her, he'll always be the boy who needs protection, never the man who creates his problems.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of meetings and calls. At six, I head home to change for dinner. The penthouse is quiet when I arrive, but evidence of Becca is everywhere – her laptop on the coffee table, a half-empty tea mug beside it, and her running shoes by the door. These small signs of her presence fill the space that once felt so empty.

I shower and dress in a fresh suit, checking my watch. Becca should be home soon. Right on cue, I hear the front door open.

"Clive?" Her voice calls out.

"In the bedroom," I answer, adjusting my cufflinks.

She appears in the doorway, still in her work clothes—a navy pencil skirt and cream blouse—with her hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. Even after a full day of work, she looks radiant.

"Those flowers are absolutely ridiculous," she says, but her smile betrays her pleasure. "The doorman had to help me carry them up."

I cross the room to kiss her, breathing in the light floral scent of her perfume. "Too much?"

"Always too much," she murmurs against my lips. "But I love them anyway."

She steps back, eyeing my suit appreciatively. "You look handsome. Give me fifteen minutes to get ready?"

"Take all the time you need. Our reservation isn't until eight."

While Becca showers, I pour myself a scotch and step out onto the terrace. I feel a profound sense of contentment—not just the satisfaction of business success but a deeper fulfillment.

Becca emerges forty minutes later in a deep burgundy dress that hugs her curves.

"Worth the wait," I say, setting down my glass. "You look stunning."

She blushes, still unused to compliments after years of Jack's casual cruelty. "Thank you. Ready to scandalize New York society?"

"More than ready." I offer my arm. "Let them talk."

In the elevator, Becca fidgets with her clutch. "Did Kay call you? After Jack left?"

I consider lying, then think better of it. "Kay did."

"And?"

"And she's upset, as expected. She'll get over it." I squeeze her hand. "Don't worry about Kay or Jack tonight. This is about us."

The restaurant welcomes us with quiet elegance. Heads turn as we're led to our table, whispers following in our wake. I place my hand on the small of Becca's back, a deliberate gesture of possession and pride.

"Mr. Bishop," the maître d' greets us. "Your usual table."

I pull out Becca's chair, noting the slight tremble in her hands as she sits. Under the table, I place my hand on her knee reassuringly.

"Everyone's staring," she whispers, unfolding her napkin.

"Let them." I scan the room, meeting the curious gazes directly until they look away. "They're just jealous."

She laughs softly. "Of me, maybe. Dating New York's most eligible bachelor."

"Former bachelor," I correct, reaching across the table to take her hand. "And they should be jealous of me. I'm the one having dinner with the most beautiful woman in the room."

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