Lena didn't go back the next day.
Or the day after that.
She told herself she was busy — chasing deadlines, revising blueprints, taking client calls. But the truth hovered in every breath: she was hiding.
From Alexander.
From herself.
From the dangerous, beautiful thing growing between them.
It would be easier, she told herself, to pretend none of it had happened. Easier to bury the hurt under professionalism.
Easier to forget the way his touch had felt — like a promise he was too broken to keep.
On the third day, her phone rang.
Unknown number.
She stared at the screen, heart thundering.
She almost didn't answer.
Almost.
"Hello?"
"Lena."
His voice — low, rough with something he didn't bother to hide — flooded her like heat and sorrow all at once.
She closed her eyes.
"You disappeared," he said.
"I needed space," she replied quietly.
A pause. A breath.
"I get it," Alexander said. "But I'm not letting you run. Not without a fight."
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
"Alexander—"
"Meet me," he interrupted, urgency lacing every word. "Please."
The "please" undid her.
Alexander Kane did not beg.
And yet, for her, he was willing.
Against every ounce of better judgment, Lena whispered, "Where?"
He sent a car.
Of course he did.
But this time, it didn't take her to the townhouse.
It took her to the edge of the city — to a plot of land framed by trees and wild grasses, cradled beneath a sky wide enough to steal the breath from her lungs.
Alexander was already there, standing beside a battered old truck, sleeves rolled up, hands shoved into his pockets like he didn't quite know what to do with them.
When she stepped out, he didn't move.
Neither did she.
For a long moment, they just looked at each other — a thousand unsaid things hanging between them like heavy rainclouds.
Finally, Lena broke the silence.
"Where are we?"
His mouth quirked, just a little.
"Home."
She blinked. "What?"
He gestured to the open field.
"This is where I want to build," he said, voice low. "The house we designed together. My real home."
She stared at him, heart hammering.
"You brought me here to...?"
"Show you I'm serious," he said simply. "About the project. About you."
The last two words landed like a punch.
She wrapped her arms around herself, fighting the emotion clawing up her throat.
"You barely know me," she said, even though some part of her didn't believe that anymore.
"I know enough," Alexander said, stepping closer. "I know you see the parts of me I don't show anyone. I know you make me want things I thought I'd buried a long time ago."
He paused, breathing hard, like every word cost him.
"And I know I'm better when you're around."
The wind tugged at her hair, at her clothes, but she couldn't move. She was rooted to the spot, trembling with everything she wanted and everything she feared.
"I don't know if I can do this," she whispered.
He smiled — a broken, beautiful thing.
"Neither do I," he said. "But I want to try."
The vulnerability in him undid her.
This man — this billionaire, this fortress of a human being — was standing here asking not for her designs, not for her loyalty, but for a chance.
Slowly, Lena crossed the distance between them.
Not trusting words, she reached out — tentative, trembling — and took his hand.
Alexander's breath shuddered out of him like she'd knocked the wind from his chest.
For a long, perfect moment, they just stood there — hand in hand, hearts hammering against ribcages, a silent agreement passing between them.
This wouldn't be easy.
It wouldn't be clean.
But it would be real.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
Alexander raised her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles — reverent, devastating.
"Thank you," he murmured against her skin.
"For what?" she asked, voice barely audible.
"For seeing me," he said simply.
And Lena realized, standing there in the golden light of a setting sun, that some foundations weren't made of concrete and steel.
Some were built from trust.
From hope.
From the reckless, impossible belief that maybe, this time, love wouldn't fall apart.
Maybe, this time, love would be enough.