Yesterday, 03:30 AM
He wasn’t surprised when the message came. Jessika’s people had called ahead, a polished young woman with the crisp tone of someone trained to sound pleasant without saying much at all.
“Privilege Jessika Thrice, requesting a meeting with Mr. Jensen James.”
His heart dipped at the sound of her name, and despite himself, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
He hadn’t spoken to Jessika at the masquerade. Hadn’t quite found the nerve, but he’d felt her presence all the same. Her eyes had lingered on his back; he’d caught himself stealing glances when he thought she wouldn’t notice. Two people caught in the same orbit, circling a shared star but never quite colliding.
The hotel was opulent, and exactly the sort of place he expected her to choose. It was exclusive and discreet. Elegant enough for power, but not necessarily publicity.
It wasn’t until he stepped through the polished glass doors that he realized he’d been here before. Head down, lost in thought until this moment, the memory hit him suddenly.
His shoulders sagged, and guilt arrived like an old injury. THis gaze swept across the room as if reliving the entire night, and as if he might see Ezvin standing right there waiting. He kept walking as though motion might bury the memory.
The adjacent bar was quiet, sparsely occupied, which only made Jessika’s absence more apparent. He chose the counter, scanning the room, already predicting she’d prefer a private table when the time came.
“Just water,” he told the bartender, who gave him a look reserved for people who occupied prime seating with poor orders.
Jessika arrived moments later.
A tailored black dress traced her body with businesslike lines. Gold hung from her neck like a badge of office, catching the light. Her heels struck the floor with a confident rhythm. Her hair was polished, curled, and voluminous, but he still saw the small-town girl beneath it. The one who used to practice speeches in their cramped kitchen with a shampoo bottle for a microphone.
Her gaze swept the room like a searchlight. Not hostile, just calculating. When it landed on him, something flickered. Then it was gone. Her expression turned neutral. A veil drawn down.
He stood. “Would you like to sit?” He motioned to the stool beside him.
She declined with a tilt of her head. “I think a table suits this better.” He knew she would say that.
The waiter brought his untouched water over, setting it down between them like an accusation. Jessika ordered a white wine spritzer. Jensen, almost on impulse, mirrored her. The waiter raised an eyebrow.
Small talk about weather and traffic followed. Empty words that tried and failed to mask the weight between them.
When the wine arrived, he stared into the pale swirl in his glass, searching for courage.
“I meant to talk to you at the masquerade,” he said, voice soft.
“I was occupied.” Her reply clipped the air, offered without warmth or irritation. Just fact.
He forced a smile. “Privilege now. That’s impressive I suppose.”
“You suppose?”
He looked at her, met her eyes. “Considering how you came into the position… yes. It is.”
There it was. The shadow between them, no longer lurking. Her jaw tightened. “You don’t know what happened, Jensen. Don’t speculate. It’ll only give you a headache.”
He leaned forward, voice low. “I was there, Jess. I saw what you did to—”
“Don’t.” Her voice cracked like a whip. “You were gone five years. You don’t get to have an opinion.”
Emotion flickered then faded. “I thought we’d moved past this.”
“Apparently we haven’t.” She took a sip of wine. It was a shield, not a comfort.
He matched her. She was right, of course. He hadn’t been there. Didn’t know what it took, what she’d sacrificed, or what she’d become.
“Are the boys in Moscow too?” he asked. Quiet. Hope bleeding through the question.
She hesitated. Then: “Yes. And they want to see you.”
He blinked, seeing it now. “That’s why you wanted to see me.” He finally realized. Not to chastise him for his choices, not to rekindle anything, and not to use him to gain more power, but to reunite him with his sons.
He nodded, not sure what to say next.
“Privilege Jessika Thrice, requesting a meeting with Mr. Jensen James.”
His heart dipped at the sound of her name, and despite himself, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
He hadn’t spoken to Jessika at the masquerade. Hadn’t quite found the nerve, but he’d felt her presence all the same. Her eyes had lingered on his back; he’d caught himself stealing glances when he thought she wouldn’t notice. Two people caught in the same orbit, circling a shared star but never quite colliding.
The hotel was opulent, and exactly the sort of place he expected her to choose. It was exclusive and discreet. Elegant enough for power, but not necessarily publicity.
It wasn’t until he stepped through the polished glass doors that he realized he’d been here before. Head down, lost in thought until this moment, the memory hit him suddenly.
His shoulders sagged, and guilt arrived like an old injury. THis gaze swept across the room as if reliving the entire night, and as if he might see Ezvin standing right there waiting. He kept walking as though motion might bury the memory.
The adjacent bar was quiet, sparsely occupied, which only made Jessika’s absence more apparent. He chose the counter, scanning the room, already predicting she’d prefer a private table when the time came.
“Just water,” he told the bartender, who gave him a look reserved for people who occupied prime seating with poor orders.
Jessika arrived moments later.
A tailored black dress traced her body with businesslike lines. Gold hung from her neck like a badge of office, catching the light. Her heels struck the floor with a confident rhythm. Her hair was polished, curled, and voluminous, but he still saw the small-town girl beneath it. The one who used to practice speeches in their cramped kitchen with a shampoo bottle for a microphone.
Her gaze swept the room like a searchlight. Not hostile, just calculating. When it landed on him, something flickered. Then it was gone. Her expression turned neutral. A veil drawn down.
He stood. “Would you like to sit?” He motioned to the stool beside him.
She declined with a tilt of her head. “I think a table suits this better.” He knew she would say that.
The waiter brought his untouched water over, setting it down between them like an accusation. Jessika ordered a white wine spritzer. Jensen, almost on impulse, mirrored her. The waiter raised an eyebrow.
Small talk about weather and traffic followed. Empty words that tried and failed to mask the weight between them.
When the wine arrived, he stared into the pale swirl in his glass, searching for courage.
“I meant to talk to you at the masquerade,” he said, voice soft.
“I was occupied.” Her reply clipped the air, offered without warmth or irritation. Just fact.
He forced a smile. “Privilege now. That’s impressive I suppose.”
“You suppose?”
He looked at her, met her eyes. “Considering how you came into the position… yes. It is.”
There it was. The shadow between them, no longer lurking. Her jaw tightened. “You don’t know what happened, Jensen. Don’t speculate. It’ll only give you a headache.”
He leaned forward, voice low. “I was there, Jess. I saw what you did to—”
“Don’t.” Her voice cracked like a whip. “You were gone five years. You don’t get to have an opinion.”
Emotion flickered then faded. “I thought we’d moved past this.”
“Apparently we haven’t.” She took a sip of wine. It was a shield, not a comfort.
He matched her. She was right, of course. He hadn’t been there. Didn’t know what it took, what she’d sacrificed, or what she’d become.
“Are the boys in Moscow too?” he asked. Quiet. Hope bleeding through the question.
She hesitated. Then: “Yes. And they want to see you.”
He blinked, seeing it now. “That’s why you wanted to see me.” He finally realized. Not to chastise him for his choices, not to rekindle anything, and not to use him to gain more power, but to reunite him with his sons.
He nodded, not sure what to say next.