The evening shadows stretched across Colette's bedroom. She sat at her vanity, staring blankly into the brightly lit mirror. She picked up a tube of expensive red lipstick and applied a thick layer, desperately trying to mask her pale, exhausted complexion.
A soft knock echoed from her bedroom door, pulling her out of her gloomy, spiraling thoughts.
"Come in," she called out, expecting Mrs. Davies to enter with fresh laundry.
The door opened. Alex walked in. He was carrying a brown paper takeout bag. The rich, earthy scent of truffle pasta-from the most exclusive Italian restaurant in Manhattan-instantly filled the room.
He set the bag on the small glass table near the window.
Colette turned on her vanity stool. She was genuinely surprised. The restaurant had a six-month waiting list. He had remembered her ultimate comfort food.
A small, genuine smile broke through her mask. A strange warmth spread in her chest, melting the ice Julian had left behind.
She stood up, fully intending to walk over and join him at the table.
Suddenly, her phone buzzed loudly against the marble surface of the vanity. The harsh vibration shattered the quiet intimacy of the room.
Colette glanced down at the screen. It was a text from Julian.
Meet me at Le Bernardin in thirty minutes. Late dinner. Let's fix this.
Colette hesitated. Her eyes darted between the warm, fragrant takeout bag on the table and the cold, glowing phone screen.
She grabbed the phone. Her thumbs flew across the keyboard, typing a rapid reply to Julian, accepting his invitation.
She looked up at Alex. Her expression hardened, the walls slamming back into place. She slipped back into her proud heiress persona.
"I have plans with Julian," she told Alex, her voice crisp and detached. "I cannot eat the food you brought."
Alex's eyes dropped to the paper bag for a fraction of a second. It was a microscopic movement, but it hid a flash of deep, gut-wrenching disappointment.
When he looked back up, his face was an impassive mask of professional courtesy.
"Understood," he nodded slowly. "I will have the kitchen staff dispose of it."
Colette felt a sharp, sudden pang of guilt in her stomach. She had just rejected his incredibly thoughtful gesture for a man who had abandoned her that morning.
She tried to justify her choice, needing him to understand. "I need to be seen in public with Julian tonight. The gossip columns are already whispering about my birthday. I have to stop the rumors."
Alex stepped aside. He opened the bedroom door wider to let her pass.
"Have a good evening, Colette," he said softly. His tone betrayed absolutely nothing. No anger. No judgment. Just empty politeness.
Colette grabbed her designer clutch from the bed. She brushed past him into the hallway, the scent of his cedar cologne mixing with her perfume.
She stopped abruptly. She turned back to face him, a sudden, fierce determination in her eyes.
"Ensure Julian's calendar is completely cleared for my dress fitting tomorrow," she demanded. "No excuses."
Alex pulled his sleek phone from his pocket. He immediately sent a directive to Julian's executive assistant, his thumbs moving with ruthless efficiency.
"The schedule is locked," Alex confirmed. His dark eyes met hers with unwavering intensity.
Colette nodded, satisfied with his power over the corporate calendar. She turned and headed toward the private elevator.
Alex stood in the doorway and watched the elevator doors close. He was entirely alone in the quiet penthouse.
He walked back over to the glass table. He picked up the heavy bag of truffle pasta. He carried it down the hall, walked into the pristine kitchen, and threw the untouched food directly into the stainless steel trash bin.
He leaned his hands against the cold marble counter. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. He closed his eyes, torturing himself with the image of Colette smiling at Julian across a candlelit table.
