Chapter 17

Serena’s POV

I jolted awake at the distinct sensation of being watched.

There he was—Ryan—looming over my bed, his hand suspended inches from my face.

"What the hell are you doing?" I hissed, clutching the thin sheet to my chest.

He didn’t answer immediately. His breathing was heavy, and even in the dim light, I could see the fine sheen of sweat glistening on his skin. His eyes, usually cold and calculating, were clouded with an intensity I hadn't seen in years.

Recognition hit me instantly.

"Shit," I muttered. "She gave you that tonic."

Evelyn’s innocent "fertility tonic" suddenly made perfect sense. The old woman hadn’t given up on getting her great-grandchildren after all. She had resorted to a desperate, underhanded intervention to force us together.

"You need to go back to the study," I said firmly, keeping the sheet between us as a barrier. "Right now, Ryan."

Instead of retreating, he sank onto the edge of my bed. The proximity sent an unwelcome jolt of awareness through my body.

"I can’t think straight," he admitted, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Everything feels... overwhelming."

"That’s because your grandmother interfered, you idiot." Despite the danger of the situation, I couldn’t help the bitterness in my voice. "Three years of marriage, and she felt she had to resort to this just to get you to look at me. Ironic, isn’t it?"

Ryan reached out, his hand finding my arm. Even that simple contact felt electric, a sharp contrast to the coldness that had defined our divorce. "I need to talk to you, Serena. I can't be alone right now."

"No, you're just affected by whatever was in that drink," I corrected him, trying to ignore the way my own heart was hammering against my ribs. "It’s not you talking."

He leaned closer, his gaze searching mine. For three years, he had turned his back to me every single night. Now, the wall he had built between us seemed to be crumbling under the weight of the moment.

"Is it really just the drink?" he murmured, his breath warm against my skin. "Or have we both been pretending for too long?"

"This is wrong," I whispered, even as I felt my resolve weakening. "We’re divorced. We moved on."

"Did we?" he challenged, his voice thick with a mix of desire and regret.

I should have pushed him away. I should have remembered the nights I’d cried myself to sleep, desperate for the very attention he was now offering. But three years of longing made me hesitate just long enough for the tension between us to snap.

When he finally leaned in, the kiss wasn't the mechanical fulfillment of a duty. It was desperate and raw. My hands flew to his chest, intending to shove him back, but my fingers ended up curling into the fabric of his shirt instead.

"Stop," I whispered against his lips, though the word lacked any real conviction.

"The past doesn't matter tonight," Ryan murmured, his voice a commanding rumble that sent shivers down my spine. "Just for tonight, let's stop fighting."

I wanted to argue, to maintain some semblance of dignity. I didn't want to be a replacement for his memories or a pawn in his grandmother's games. But as he pulled me closer, the emotional pain of our history began to mingle with a physical longing I couldn't suppress.

The rest of the night became a blur of shared heat and whispered admissions. There were no more barriers, no more cold shoulders—only a primal need to bridge the distance we had created over the years. In the darkness of the room, the resentment that had defined our relationship seemed to melt away, replaced by an intensity that was both terrifying and addictive.

For the first time, he wasn't the distant CEO or the reluctant husband. He was just a man, and I was just a woman, caught in a moment that defied logic and law.

As the first light of dawn began to creep into the room, the fog of the night started to lift. Reality was waiting just beyond the door, ready to rush back in with its judgments and complications.

But as Ryan pulled me gently against his chest, his steady heartbeat thrumming beneath my cheek, I allowed myself to drift off.

Tomorrow’s regrets could wait. Tonight, I would allow myself this one moment of unexpected surrender.