The days after she left Alexander's penthouse were a blur of exhaustion and deadlines.
She had lost days to him.
Days she should have spent working on her projects, meeting clients, designing new pieces.
Instead, she had spent them screaming his name, bent over every surface he could get her on.
And now?
Now, she was paying for it.
What surprised her the most was that Alexander kept checking in.
Calling her.
At first, she thought it was a one-time thing. But after the third call in a week—the casual "How's work?" or "Did you eat today?" texts—she realized he wasn't letting her slip away that easily.
Not that she minded.
She was busy—too busy to let herself think about how much she missed him, how much she wanted to go back, how much she craved the way he made her feel.
But the moment he asked her to dinner?
She knew.
She was going to fall into his bed again. She missed his body more than she wanted to admit.
When she met him at the restaurant, he was already waiting. Dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, silver cufflinks gleaming under the dim lighting.
And when she walked in—the way his gray eyes darkened when he saw her, the way his gaze swept over her like he was already imagining her naked—she knew exactly how the night was going to end.
And truth be told, she was looking forward to it.
Dinner was easy. Comfortable.
He talked about his upcoming projects—a new campaign overseas, a few brand collaborations, a media tour. There was a short trip to Paris coming up, interviews lined up, even a documentary team following him for a luxury lifestyle feature.
Gie told him about her next jewelry collection—pieces inspired by tribal heritage, reimagined through bold modern design. She mentioned a new sapphire and obsidian line she was perfecting, recent deals with two international stockists, and a potential solo exhibit in Singapore.
They talked about how neither of them had been sleeping properly since she left.
She teased him about the line of women probably waiting to take her place.
He just smirked. "I'm not interested in anyone else."
The words sent a sharp pulse through her, but she didn't dwell on it.
Because all she could think about was later—his hands on her again, his mouth, the way he'd make her forget everything but him.
But then—
He said it.
She almost missed it.
She was too caught up imagining the ride back to his place, the moment he'd press her against the wall.
"What?" she blinked.
Alexander leaned back, his fingers tapping gently against his wine glass.
"What are we, Gie?" he repeated, voice low and steady.
Just like that, the fantasy cracked.
She had never considered a future with him. Never imagined permanence. She wasn't built for relationships.
And Alexander? He had a reputation. A business built on seduction and image.
This had always been lust.
Temporary. Addictive, but fleeting.
And he had to know that.
She folded the edge of her napkin, gathering her thoughts.
"You know what this is," she said quietly, trying to meet his gaze.
His jaw ticked, but he didn't respond.
"I'm not... good at relationships," she added. "And you need to keep your playboy image."
She tried to make it sound light, almost playful, like they were both in on the joke.
The truth was she had obsessed over him. Lusted for him.
But she wasn't ready for anything more.
And he wasn't the kind of man who usually asked for labels.
Alexander studied her for a moment, unreadable.
Then he nodded.
And somehow, that hurt more than anything else he could've said.
To her disappointment, he didn't take her back to his penthouse.
Didn't drag her to his bed.
Didn't kiss her like he was starving for her.
Instead, he took her home.
Dropped her off like she was just another dinner date.
She stood outside her door, watching his car disappear, a tight ache building in her chest.
She had shaved for this.
She was pissed.
At him. At herself.
Because this was what she wanted.
And it felt like shit.
Then the photos dropped.
The world exploded with Alexander Millers.
The shoot was everywhere—social media, magazine covers, billboards. His face, his body, that goddamn nipple ring—all anyone could talk about. Women swooned. Men admired, mocked, envied. He was trending. The internet was on fire.
And Gie?
She was fucking livid.
Because she had done that.
She had designed that jewelry. Had touched his skin. Heard his groans when she fastened it on him. Had kissed that same chest now plastered across every luxury ad campaign.
She had had him.
And now, everyone else wanted him too.
When Laurent called to invite her as his partner to a party she knew Alexander would be at, she didn't hesitate.
She rarely attended these things, but Alexander had been hard to reach after their last conversation.
So she went.
What she hadn't expected was the ugly twist of jealousy in her stomach when he walked in.
With two women on his arms.
Blonde. Gorgeous. Supermodel-esque.
Everything she wasn't.
He looked like royalty—in a custom black suit, cufflinks shining, the hint of that infamous nipple ring peeking through his unbuttoned collar.
And when he smiled—that infuriating, practiced playboy smirk that charmed the entire world?
She wanted to wipe it off his face.
She had no right to be angry.
No right to be jealous.
She was the one who had drawn the line.
Told him not to get attached.
Told him to play his role.
So why did it feel like someone had cracked her chest open?
Why did she feel stupid for thinking maybe—just maybe—she had mattered more?
She turned sharply, grabbing champagne from a passing waiter and downing half the glass.
"Easy," Laurent murmured beside her, silky as ever.
He looked flawless, dressed in a sleek suit with one of her own diamond brooches pinned to his lapel.
"Someone's in a mood," he noted, eyes following hers.
Then he spotted Alexander.
Ah.
Laurent sighed. "Men. The worst invention since low-rise jeans."
Gie didn't reply.
Just took another sharp sip of her drink.
Her gaze cut toward Alexander again, and she hated herself for it.
Hated that she couldn't look away.
And then—
He looked at her.
Alexander's gray eyes locked on hers. Steady. Cool. Unreadable.
The room vanished.
Her pulse jumped.
Just the two of them. Locked in place.
And then—
He tilted his head.
Studied her.
Then smirked.
And turned back to his date.
Like she was nothing.
Like they had never touched. Never fallen apart in each other's arms.
The fire in her blood turned ice cold.
Because she had wanted this.
She had built the wall.
Drawn the boundary.
And now?
Now she had to live with it.