New York Billionaires Series

And there he is, across the room. The man I’m falling in love with.

He’s talking to Sharon and Clive in the far distance of the employee-packed room. There’s an uncomfortable tilt to his shoulders, like he doesn’t want to be here. He shakes both of their hands and disappears toward the hallway.

I watch him retreat just like I did at the conference in Boston. We don’t have a rooftop terrace here, though. And he’s not going home, not when he hasn’t grabbed the mic yet and wished everyone here a Merry Christmas.

My heart speeds up as I tell Quentin and Toby I forgot something at my desk. I ride the elevator to the thirty-fourth floor instead. There’s so much churning emotion inside of me that I barely register the familiar fear.

Milan is my decision, and yet Tristan hadn’t wanted me to make the one my heart is telling me to. You’re ambitious and brave, and that’s what I like about you. Would he think less of me if I turned Italy down?

And worse, would I think less of myself?

I walk down the empty hall on the top floor, passing offices I’ve never entered. Heading to the large one at the end of the hall with the emblazoned letters on the door.

Tristan Conway.

I knock and he responds a few seconds later. His voice is familiar, and yet not. Because this professional tone isn’t one I’ve heard him use toward me since… well. Ever.

Even in the Gilded Room, he had his walls lowered more than he does here, in the company he owns and operates.

He closes his laptop when he sees me. “Freddie?”

“Hi.” I push the door shut. “Are you hiding from the party?”

“I couldn’t be down there. Besides, they don’t want me there.”

“They don’t?”

He pushes back the chair and rises. “No. They want to gossip and blow off steam. They want to talk about me, not with me.”

I frown. “That sounds sad.”

He waves a dismissive hand, coming around to lean against his desk. Not crossing the distance to me. Not wrapping his arms around me or pressing a kiss to my temple. Just calm, collected, restrained. A man who’s made up his mind.

“We haven’t spoken this weekend,” I say.

“I’ve been busy. So, I take it, have you?” The voice isn’t unkind, but it is determined. “I heard you accepted the job.”

“No, I haven’t. Eleanor gave me an extension. I have until the end of the week,” I say, taking a step closer, and hating the unusual formality between us.

Tristan meets me halfway. I lean against his chest and he wraps his arms around me, pressing a kiss to my forehead. The bristles of his rough-shaven jaw tickle my skin. “You’re hesitating?” he asks.Property © NôvelDrama.Org.

“I am, yes.”

“I hope you’re not hesitating because of me,” he says. The hand on my back is soft, but the steel in his voice is not.

Something in my chest cracks. “And why not?”

He sighs, both arms coming around me. “Because we’re in different times of our lives,” he murmurs. “Because I can’t be the one who holds you back. Because this is a dream of yours, Freddie, and it would kill me if you regretted saying no.”

My next words aren’t well-thought out. They’re a fear given words, and like a genie, they can’t be put back into a bottle. “What happens if I go? Does that mean we’d be over?”

The single nod against my head is heart-breaking. “How can it be differently?” he asks.

There are a million things in my mind. I can stay here instead. Or you can quit being the CEO. We can do long-distance. Or, worst of all, Why don’t you come with me to Italy?

But it wouldn’t be fair to ask him that, not when I know what he’d have to sacrifice in return. The value he places on being a good father and a good boss are his very best qualities, and I wouldn’t want him to break them even if he was inclined to.

My eyes burn and I clench them tight, but it only speeds the tears on their journey down my cheeks.

“Frederica?” Tristan murmurs, a hand smoothing over the back of my head. “Are you okay?”

I shake my head against his chest, and he sighs, pressing me closer. He might not say a word, but I can feel it in the strength of his arms. I know, he’s saying. I know exactly.

“When do they want you there?” he murmurs.

My words come out muffled. “First of February. I understand if you don’t want us to continue seeing each other, you know. If I’m moving.”

He leans back, eyes widening as he takes in my face. They grow soft as he cups my cheek, a thumb smoothing over my tear-tracked cheek. “We can,” he says. “But it will make things harder for us both when you go.”

“Yes, it might.”

“So you’ll go to Philadelphia to celebrate with your family.”

“And you’ll go to Tahiti to see the whales,” I whisper, my hands locked in his shirt.

He nods. “And when we get back in January… we can see. We’ll meet to say goodbye, if nothing else. I’m here, Freddie. Always. Just not to hold you back.”

But what if you’re not? I want to ask. What if Italy’s the thing that’s holding me back?

The trust in me I see in his eyes stops my words. Combined with the look in Eleanor’s eyes when she said how much she believed in me. My grandfather, with more business savvy in his pinkie than most people had in their entire body.

“Don’t go back to the Gilded Room,” I blurt.

Tristan’s eyes widen. “Where did that come from?”

I take a step back from him. “Tristan, you’re worth so much more than someone who only wants you for your body, or for your money. Than something that’s just for a night.”

His jaw works, and he leans back from me, hands braced against the edge of his desk. “You… you want me to start dating properly?”

The words make my eyes burn with tears. “No. Yes. I don’t know, but I want you to be happy. You deserve to be happy.”

“So do you,” he tells me, voice hoarse. “More than anyone. But forgive me, Freddie, if I’m not quite at the stage yet where I can wish you happy dating.”

My attention narrows to small, discernible things. The miserable lines on his face. The way he’s holding himself back. My own feelings spinning out of control.

And I have to get out of here before I lose my own determination, asking him to be okay with me instead. With letting him hold me back, as he put it. But how can I do that?

“Bye, Tristan,” I say. My voice breaks on his name.