Page 44 of Obsessed by My Ex's Mafia Uncle

What exactly have I done for the universe to be this gracious?

I lean in slightly, Atelia’s voice drifting somewhere behind me, Sullivan responding with something that doesn’t stick because I’m not listening.

She’s different.

That’s the first thing I notice, not all at once, but in layers the longer I look. Her posture is straighter, like she knows exactly where she is and doesn’t need to adjust herself to fit into it.

The woman sitting across from Daniel isn’t the girl I left in that room three years ago, trying to make sense of something she didn’t choose.

This one looks like she made her own choices. And kept them.

“There’s a wedding here?” Sullivan asks, his gaze catching on the arrangement being discussed in the distance, the subtle shifts already hinting at something more than a regular service day.

“Yes,” I answer, almost absently, my attention elsewhere. “It’ll be our first event.”

God, she’s beautiful.

“Robert.” Atelia’s voice cuts in.

I blink once, pulling myself back into the room, into the conversation still waiting for me to finish it.

Sullivan is watching now. Observant, as expected from me like him.

“We’ll finalize everything based on your requirements.” I clear my throat, my tone passing for unaffected. “You’ll have full access to the space for the duration of the conference.”

He nods, satisfied, but there’s a question in his eyes now.

I don’t give him anything to confirm it.

“I have another engagement,” I add smoothly, already stepping away without breaking the rhythm. “Atelia will take care of the remaining details.”

“Of course.” She doesn’t miss a beat, turning toward him with that same polished ease. “We can go over the branding integrations and final logistics.”

I don’t wait for more.

I’m already moving.

The door to my office slides shut behind me, cutting off the noise of the restaurant, the conversation, and the presence of everything that doesn’t matter anymore.

I lean into the silence, listening for the sound of my own heartbeat.

I don’t go to the desk, instead, I go to the seating area, dropping into the leather sofa with an exhale that doesn’t release what’s sitting in my chest.

Four fucking years.

My hand reaches for the decanter before I think too much of it.

I pour, the whiskey slushing into the glass in a slow amber swirl, catching the light just enough to remind me I’m still in real-time.

A pinch of salt follows.

I swirl it once, watching it dissolve before bringing the glass to my lips.

The burn stabs me in the chest, but it’s nothing like what just walked back into my life without warning.

I lean back slightly, the glass resting loosely in my hand as the image comes back again, uninvited.

The image comes back again, uninvited.