Page 24 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part One

“You actually came,” I say, my voice giving away more surprise than I intend.

He smirks, holding up the flyer I gave him yesterday. “You made a pretty compelling case.”

Wrinkles mar the paper along the crease, as if he’s folded and unfolded it several times since I handed it to him yesterday.

I straighten. “Well,” I say, “you’re here to listen and learn. Right, Richie Rich?”

His eyebrow goes up. “What makes you think I’m rich?”

A scoff bubbles up from my chest.

“You’re gonna sit here and tell me you aren’t?”

My eyes flick to the small Balenciaga emblem stitched over his left pec, then to the Patek Philippe watch on his wrist.

Tracking my movements, he grimaces and folds his arms across his chest, widening his stance and broadening his shoulders.

Holy hell.

I swallow, about to say something that’s likely going to embarrass me, when Yenn’s sharp, “It’s the top of the hour!” rings from the open door.

Storm tilts his head, pointing down the stairs. “Shall we?”

I nod sharply, spinning to flee down the stairs ahead of him.

I’m grateful for the thirty seconds it takes me to enter the meeting room, because it allows me time to assess the crowd.

There are more people here than I expected.

Ez and Yenn are playing host—Ezra has a group near the snack table laughing, and Yenn stands over Kurt with her hands on her hips, clearly giving him a lecture.

Storm steps in behind me, and it’s like the energy in the room shifts. Or maybe it’s just me. Either way, I’m hyperaware of him.

“Are you happy?” he purrs quietly, close to my ear, and his breath causes the curl that’s escaped my bun at the base of my neck to flutter.

And my heart.

“Happy? I’m always happy,” I reply, not looking at him.

He hums, and holy hell, it feels like he’s moving closer. He smells like woodsmoke, cardamom, and the air right after the rain stops.

“Why don’t I believe you?” His soft statement has me turning around finally, and when I face him, my stomach clenches. Because in his gaze, I can see he’s already figured me out.

“I’m mostly happy,” I whisper.

The movement in the room begins to fade; we focus on each other.

He smiles, but it lacks his usual cockiness. It feels almost…genuine? Like he’s dropped his mask and is showing me the real Storm beneath it all.

“I’m glad for it, Shae,” he replies. “And you should be happy with the turnout here.” He nods past me toward the group. The action shakes me out of my haze, and my conscience slaps me on both cheeks.

Pull it together, Shae!

I clear my throat and force a bright smile, stepping away from him as if putting physical distance between us will somehow quiet the storm inside me. “Okay, everyone! Let’s get started.”

The distance feels like a tangible thing, a tether stretched taut between us. But I shake it off, focusing instead on the group in front of me, most of their faces expectant and eager.

This is what matters, I remind myself. This is why I’m here.

---