Page 102 of Dial F for Finance

“He’s completely obsessed with you,” Serena corrects, her tone gentling. “And you’re terrified because he’s not just making grand, dismissible gestures anymore. He’s offering to help with your sister’s career goals. He’s looking at you like you’re the only person in a room full of very loud people.”

My chest tightens. She’s named the exact thing I’ve been trying not to.

When Dominic was just a charismatic hurricane of expensive suits and relentless flirting, I could categorize him. I could manage the threat. But this version of him—the one who builds quiet spaces for me in his life, memorizes my likes and dislikes, and touches the back of my neck until my carefully ordered mind goes entirely blank—doesn’t give me anything to fight. He just keeps making room for me.

“I don’t like losing control,” I admit quietly. It is the closest thing to a confession I have made in years.

Serena smiles, bumping her shoulder against mine. “I know. We all saw those walls of yours slam back into place when you fell into that moment in there. But sometimes those free falls are the best part.”

The city runs to the horizon in every direction, lit up and indifferent, a thousand small lives driving somewhere on a Saturday night. I let out a heavy breath.

“You said something to me after brunch,” I say. “On a sidewalk. That if there ever came a day I needed to say something out loud—to make sure it was real, or to make sure it wasn’t—you were around. No shrieking. No follow-up questions.”

“I remember.”

I turn my glass by the stem. Inside, muffled to a hum, someone howls with laughter. Out here it’s just wind and altitude and a woman patient enough to wait me out, that door of hers still open for me.

“I think it’s real,” I say.

Serena doesn’t squeal. She doesn’t gasp or clap her hands or demand details. True to her word, she simply takes a sip of her drink, the ice clinking softly against the glass in the quiet night air.

“I can tell,” she says softly. “I think I first noticed you softening toward him that night you finally agreed to join us at a club.”

I stiffen slightly, recalling the low light and relentless thump of the bass.

“That was a logistical anomaly,” I murmur, though the corner of my mouth betrays me with a twitch. “My schedule was compromised. I was exhausted and experiencing a severe lapse in judgment.”

“And yet, you let him buy you a French 75 and follow you around like an enamored puppy dog all evening,” Serena counters smoothly.

She’s right, of course. Her observational skills are flawless. That night was the first time my certainty slipped. It was the exact moment I realized his over-the-top flirting might be serious.

“It wasn’t a puppy dog,” I correct her, though the precision of my defense lacks its usual bite. “It was more like a highly trained guard dog that occasionally forgot its dignity to chase a tennis ball.”

Serena laughs, the sound bright and warm against the chill of the wind. “Whatever species of canine you prefer, Jenna. The point is, he’s yours. And you’re his.”

I take another sip of wine, letting the dry finish settle on my tongue. I look back through the floor-to-ceiling glass. The guacamole debate inside seems to have escalated into a full-scale legal proceeding. Logan is currently holding up a tortilla chip like a piece of irrefutable evidence.

But my eyes immediately bypass the chaos, locking onto Dominic.

He’s leaning against the kitchen island, a beer in one hand, looking effortlessly lethal in his dark shirt. As if sensing the exact coordinates of my gaze, his head turns. Across twenty feet of designer furniture and thick insulated glass, his dark eyes find mine.

The corner of his mouth tips up in a slow, devastating smirk. He raises his bottle a fraction of an inch in my direction—a private salute.

My heart executes a flawless, terrifying swan dive.

“Look at him,” Serena murmurs, following my line of sight. “He’s practically vibrating with the urge to come out here and check on you, but he’s holding back because he knows you need a minute. That’s not a takeover, Jenna. That’s a partnership.”

I swallow hard, my grip on the stem of my glass tightening. “It’s terrifying,” I whisper, the admission feeling jagged in my throat. “I have contingency plans for market crashes, PR disasters, and difficult acquisitions. I don’t have a contingency plan for him.”

Serena turns, resting her forearms against the cold metal. “Maybe you don’t need one. Dominic isn’t trying to take control away from you. He’s waiting for you to choose him.”

I stare at her profile, my analytical mind searching for a flaw in her logic and finding absolutely none. It’s infuriating.

“I despise it when you’re right,” I mutter.

Serena’s smile widens. “I’m just calling it how I see it—as someone who knows the difference between losing control and feeling safe enough to let go.” She finishes her drink, the ice clacking a final time, and pushes off the railing. “Now, I’m going back inside before Caleb manages to find case law to cite about avocados. Take your time. Or don’t.” She pauses, glancing over her shoulder. “But he’s tracking your heart rate through the glass, so I wouldn’t leave him waiting too long.”

She slides the balcony door open, letting out a brief burst of Layla’s laughter, and slips inside.