The office was quiet again.
Thomas had long gone, leaving behind only the lingering echo of his words—laced with wisdom, sarcasm, and friendship.
Zeke sat alone behind his desk, the weight of his thoughts pressing down harder than the folders scattered before him. He wasn't reading. He wasn't working. His gaze was fixed on nothing, lost in the whirlwind of memories and what-ifs.
"Chase her. Find her. Make her fall in love with you."
It sounded simple when Thomas said it. Almost cinematic. But Zeke had played that scene in his head a hundred times—finding Cassidy, telling her everything he never said, watching her face twist in shock, maybe anger, or worse... disappointment.
He didn't want that.
He didn't want to corner her with his feelings. To chase her down only to become a burden. To make her feel like she owed him something just because he had finally figured out what she meant to him.
Cassidy didn't need that kind of pressure.
She deserved peace.
He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly as he stared up at the ceiling, blinking hard. His chest tightened with the ache he could never quite shake off.
So much had changed in the last few years. Including him.
And yet… her name still hurt like a bruise every time it crossed his mind.
Zeke ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes, the silence pressing in like fog.
"I don't want to hurt her."
"I don't want to lose her either."
Zeke scoffed bitterly, shaking his head at himself.
"Lose her?" he muttered under his breath. "She was never mine to begin with."
His voice was low, almost inaudible in the stillness of the room. There was no anger in it—just a quiet sort of defeat. As if even admitting that hurt more than he expected.
How can I lose someone who was never really mine?
He didn't know what to do.
So, like always, he did nothing.
And the world outside his window kept spinning—quiet, indifferent, and unbothered by the war inside his chest.
***
It was 7 PM in New York, but the sky was still bright, lingering in the soft glow of early evening. The long summer day refused to end, casting warm light over the avenues and glass towers.
Ezekiel Salvador exited his office building into the golden twilight. The air was mild—neither warm nor cold—carrying a faint breeze that rustled the leaves overhead.
His private driver stood by the Rolls-Royce, poised to open the door. Zeke shook his head, his tone quiet but resolute.
"Head home. I'll drive myself tonight."
The driver gave a slight bow. "Yes, sir."
Zeke slid into the driver's seat. The engine purred, blending into the gentle hum of the city.
He guided the car through the streets still bathed in the day's light. Evening traffic flowed steadily, and office workers drifted along the sidewalks beneath the lingering glow of streetlamps being switched on. He passed through the business district and into quieter neighborhoods, framed by mature trees and lined with small, tasteful shops.
He didn't have a destination. He only needed to keep moving.
Eventually, he slowed.
A bright patisserie caught his eye—elegant and inviting, its tall windows glowing warmly against the backdrop of the dusky streets. The display glistened with refined pastries—pear frangipane tarts, matcha mille-feuille dusted with gold, and espresso-soaked tiramisu cups. Above the entrance, a minimalist copper sign read Maison de Sucre.
He parked and stepped out. The click of his dress shoes against the pavement was crisp in the quiet.
A soft scent of rich coffee and caramel trailed after him as he entered.
The subdued chime of the doorbell marked his arrival. Inside, warm light bathed the high-ceilinged interior—wood finishes, marble accents, and plush seating. A few tables were occupied: a father and daughter sharing gelato, a quiet group deep in conversation, and two women sipping champagne by the window as daylight faded behind them.
Heads turned subtly at his entrance—sharp suits and composed presence marking someone of quiet prestige.
Zeke didn't acknowledge them. He approached the counter.
"Good evening," he said quietly. "What do you recommend today?"
The barista—a young woman in a crisp black uniform—smiled professionally. "Our specialties are the dark chocolate opera cake layered with yuzu cream, the lavender crème brûlée tart, and the Earl Grey panna cotta domes."
He nodded. "Opera cake. And a black coffee, please."
Minutes later, he settled into a secluded armchair in the back. He loosened his tie, unfastened the top shirt button, and exhaled. For the first time since the afternoon, he felt a momentary ease.
The opera cake was exquisite—dense ganache balanced by light sponge and a lingering citrus note. He took a slow sip of coffee, letting the richness fill the silence.
It reminded him of Nicole.
Since reconnecting with his sister, he'd started enjoying sweets again—something he used to scorn as childish. But now? He found comfort in them. Sweetness, maybe, where the rest of his life felt bitter.
He sipped his coffee, letting the quiet settle over him.
He noticed the glances—subtle, polite, curious. A few women whispered to each other. Someone across the room covertly pulled out a phone.
Zeke ignored it.
Let them look.
He wasn't here for attention.
He was here for silence. For a small escape. For something warm to hold onto while his thoughts drifted to a woman he couldn't forget.
Cassidy...
And no amount of sweetness could dull that ache.
Zeke was halfway through his opera cake, the bittersweet chocolate melting smoothly on his tongue, when the bell above the café door chimed again.
A man stepped inside—tall, broad-shouldered, casually dressed in a navy sweater and dark jeans. He looked to be in his early thirties, his features striking and effortlessly charismatic. With a polite smile toward the barista, he ordered a selection of pastries and a flat white, then glanced around the café before choosing the seat directly in front of Zeke.
Zeke didn't pay much attention at first. The man seemed like the kind of person who moved easily through the world—relaxed, confident, unbothered. Someone who probably had no idea what it felt like to drown in silence.
Moments later, the man's phone rang. Without hesitation, he answered with a cheerful "Hey, sweetheart!" followed by a warm chuckle.
Zeke's ears perked up as a high-pitched, excited voice squealed through the video call, "Uncle Xaviiii!"
The child on the other end chattered nonstop—her voice high, dramatic, and full of animated stories. Zeke couldn't help but glance up, a faint smile touching his lips. The way the little girl spoke reminded him of someone's grandmother caught in a toddler's body—nagging and expressive in the most entertaining way.
He looked down again, stirring his coffee absently.
He didn't have moments like that. Not really. He had a niece—Arielle—but she was already a teenager now, more interested in TikTok dances and sullen eye rolls than tea parties and story time.
As he finished the last bite of cake and reached for his jacket, his gaze flicked toward the man's phone.
The child on screen was adorable—round cheeks, soft curls, eyes bright with mischief and warmth. For a fleeting moment, something in her face tugged at his memory. Familiar. He blinked, then brushed it off. Kids often looked alike.
He stood, preparing to leave.
But just as he passed by the man's table, another voice rang out from the phone—female, sharp but gentle, calling out, "Claire, sweetheart, don't hog Uncle Xavier's time. He's busy!"
Zeke froze.
The voice. That voice.
It punched the air from his lungs.
He turned sharply, eyes wide, staring at the phone now lying face-down on the table. The call had just ended. The man—Xavier—was now sipping his coffee and scrolling through his messages, unaware of the storm that had just cracked open behind Zeke's eyes.
Cassidy.
That was her voice.
Zeke's hand twitched by his side, unsure whether to reach for the phone or to demand answers. But he didn't move. Not yet.
Zeke's feet felt rooted to the polished floor.
His fingers twitched, and his lips parted—on the verge of saying something, anything—but his mind held him back.
What if I'm wrong?
His pulse quickened, and his jaw tightened. He'd been here before. Too many times.
There was the woman he chased through a bookstore in Chicago. From behind, she looked just like Cassidy—same build, same long chestnut hair, even the same way she tilted her head when browsing through shelves. But when she turned around, it wasn't her. Not even close.
Then there was the time at the airport—he'd heard someone laugh, a soft musical tone that sent goosebumps down his spine. He'd turned instantly, heart in his throat, certain it was Cassidy.
It wasn't.
It never was.
Now, again. A voice over a video call. Was his mind playing tricks on him again?
He clenched his fists at his sides, watching Xavier sip his coffee calmly as if nothing earth-shattering had just happened.
"Excuse me," the man—Xavier—looked up at him, polite but curious. "Is something wrong?"
Zeke blinked, then shook his head slowly. "No. Sorry," he replied quietly, his tone respectful.
Xavier nodded, then returned to his coffee and cake without much thought.
Zeke walked out of the café with measured steps. The soft hiss of the door closing behind him was the only sound in the quiet evening.
Outside, the night air was cooler than he remembered. He let out a long breath. But then his mind caught up with his instincts. He didn't know the child. A little girl named Claire. And she had called the man Uncle Xavi. What did that even mean?
If—if—that woman really was Cassidy, then who was Claire? Her niece? Her daughter? The thought hit him, sharp and unwelcome. And what kind of connection did she have with this Xavier guy?
No. Don't do this, he told himself firmly.
Cassidy had been gone for years. It could've just been a similar voice. He couldn't let himself spiral back into chasing shadows and illusions.
Zeke walked away, doing his best to ignore the sudden tightness in his chest that wouldn't quite go away.