Chapter 1

Five years ago, he left me with a single text: “Let’s take some time apart.”

Now he’s back—billion-dollar tycoon, empty-handed, begging me to open the door.

But I’m no longer the girl who waited. I built my own empire.

And this time, the only thing he can offer me is the truth.

My name is Summer Blake.

I'm thirty-two, single, and I run a crisis PR firm on the top floors of the financial district.

If you want the flattering version, I'm a public relations strategist.

If you want the truth, I clean up the messes rich people and powerful companies leave behind.

That day, I was sitting in a glass conference room high above the city.

My client was a fast-rising new energy startup. Their cash chain had snapped. A hostile acquisition was closing in.

My job was to keep the public narrative from collapsing and squeeze out the last scraps of leverage they had left.

The atmosphere in the room was suffocating.

The acquisition team across from us acted like a pack of sharks. They tossed one clause after another onto the table, sharp and merciless.

I sat beside my client, flipping through the documents in my hand with an impeccable professional smile.

That was part of the job.

No matter how badly I wanted to curse every person on the other side of the table, my face still had to look calm and refined.

"Our boss will be here shortly. He'll make the final call himself."

The man across from me checked his watch, every bit as arrogant as his money allowed him to be.

That's how the capital world works.

Whoever has the money gets to control the room.

The heavy double doors opened.

A man walked in surrounded by assistants and senior executives.

My hand stopped over the page for half a second.

No longer.

I turned the page as if nothing had happened and lifted my eyes.

My heart, however, had already been seized by an invisible hand.

Marcus Holt.

What was he doing here?

Five years.

He looked older now. More composed. Colder.

His suit fit him perfectly. He looked like everything he had always been built to become—untouchable, immaculate, high above everyone else.

Only now there was something sharper in him. The hard authority of a man used to being obeyed.

He was thirty-four now.

No longer the young man who had once held me beneath a streetlamp and said in a hoarse voice, "Let's give each other some space."

Now he was the man in charge of Apex Capital.

The man behind this hostile takeover.

The one my client had to bow to.

The irony was almost funny.

He took the main seat and flipped open the file in front of him.

Then his gaze moved across the room and collided with mine.

I didn't look away.

I met his stare, gave him a polite nod, and smiled at him with the same distant professionalism I would have used on any cold-blooded capitalist I'd never met before.

His hand froze over the page.

Real shock flashed in his dark eyes.

Good.

I wanted him shocked.

I spent the entire negotiation cornering his team.

I used reputation risk as a bargaining chip and forced them to give us three points on the acquisition price.

Marcus said almost nothing.

He only sat back and watched me.

There was too much in his eyes for me to name.

Curiosity.

Disbelief.

Something else I didn't care to understand.

I just wanted the meeting over.

At last, the first round of agreement was reached.

My client and I stood to shake hands.

When it was Marcus's turn, my client nervously stretched out a hand.

"Mr. Holt, thank you for showing mercy."

Marcus didn't look at him.

He looked at me.

Then he held out his hand.

"Summer," he said, his voice lower than it had been five years ago, roughened by something that sounded dangerously close to memory. "Long time no see."

I lowered my gaze to his hand.

Then I gave him the smallest smile, touched his fingertips for the briefest second, and withdrew.

"Mr. Holt, you're being too polite. Have we met before?"

All the blood drained from his face.

The rush of satisfaction that hit me was ugly and immediate.

Then I turned and walked out without looking back.

By the time I got into the elevator, my palms were drenched in sweat.

That night, I soaked in the bathtub for an hour and still couldn't calm down.

A financial news push alert popped up on my phone.

**Marcus Holt of Apex Capital: the ruthless investor with five scandal-free years and no room for romance?**

I laughed coldly and tossed the phone aside.

Ruthless investor, my ass.

If he had understood any of that five years ago, I wouldn't have had to claw my own life together from the ground up.

Just as I was thinking it, my phone vibrated.

An unknown number.

I didn't answer.

A text came through instead.

Only two words.

**I'm sorry.**

I stared at the message for a long time.

Then deleted it.

Blocked the number.

Reported it as spam for good measure.

That night, lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling and found myself dragged back to another stormy night five years earlier.

He had texted me then too.

**Let's take some time apart.**

And after that, there had been nothing.

I had just closed my eyes when my phone buzzed again.

This time it was my client.

They had sent over a document and a message.

**Summer, this is the post-acquisition PR integration checklist Mr. Holt's side just sent. It's unbelievably strict, and they insisted you handle it personally. Let's start prepping tonight.**

I opened the file.

It was packed with over a hundred detailed, impossible PR demands.

Professional.

Precise.

And nasty in all the right places.

At the very bottom, the file metadata listed the creator's name.

Marcus Holt.

I scrolled to the final page.

In the notes section, there was one line that didn't belong in any formal business document.

**The oat latte at that café nearby is still worth ordering. You used to like it with less sugar. I don't know if you still do.**