Longing For Him

CHAPTER 7: The Not So Warm Welcome

Jennie

I stand in the doorway of his office, and for one suspended second, I forget how to breathe.

It’s him. Jace.

My hand is still on the door handle, and I don’t remember gripping it this tightly. Four years, and I’d built a hundred versions of this moment in my head. In every one of them, I knew exactly what to say. Now the words have scattered somewhere I can’t reach.

“Hi, Jace.”

The words hang in the silent air, heavy and fragile.

His name feels strange on my tongue.

Not because I haven’t said it in four years. I have. In my head, in the quiet of my bedroom, into pillows when I couldn’t sleep. I’ve whispered it so many times that I know exactly how it sounds when I’m happy, when I’m angry, when I’m trying not to cry.

But this is the first time I’ve said it to him.

He looks at me.

My heart hammers violently against my ribs, a frantic, unsteady rhythm that threatens to choke me.

I had imagined this moment a hundred different ways. I had imagined him furious. I had imagined him weeping. I had pictured him running to embrace me, or turning his back and walking away entirely.

I had prepared myself for every human emotion imaginable, except the brutal, suffocating reality of what sits in front of me now.

Jace looks striking. He’s harder now than I remember. Older, sharper, and far more lethal than the boy I used to hold in the dark. His jet-black hair, once thick and comfortably messy, is tailored into a pristine, side-parted cut that accentuates the severe architecture of his face. His jawline is sculpted and tight, framed by the immaculate collar of a crisp white shirt and a darkened silk tie that hangs slightly loosened. Broad-shouldered and imposing behind the vast expanse of his mahogany desk, he commands the room with an effortless, predatory presence.

Yet, it is his face that breaks something vital inside me.

For one microscopic fraction of a second, raw, unadulterated shock fractures his composure. His dark eyes widen, a ghost of agony and disbelief flashing through them so fast it feels like a fever dream. But before I can even catch my breath, the breach seals shut. The emotion vanishes, swallowed whole by a wall of impenetrable ice. His expression flattens into a terrifying, blank slate.

He looks at me with the cold, detached appraisal of a man looking at a stranger who has knocked on the wrong door. It is as if he doesn’t know me.

I swallow and move towards his desk. “How are you?”

Still nothing.

“I missed you.”

He doesn’t even blink. The silence stretches, heavy and deliberate. I feel my cheeks heat, the flush climbing higher.

“Jace, please… say something,” I whisper, my voice breaking on the edges. “Please.”

He remains silent. He just watches me, his dark eyes hollow, utterly devoid of warmth.

“I’m sorry,” I choke out, the words bursting from me in a desperate, pleading rush. “I’m so sorry for leaving, for the way things happened. I had no choice, Jace. My parents—they forced me, they made it impossible—I never wanted to go. I never stopped thinking about you. Not for a single day.”

His demeanour doesn’t shift. Shoulders squared. Hands still resting on the desk. Expression carved from ice. He looks at me the way he must look at every problem he has already decided to discard—detached, final, already done.

“I’m busy,” he says, voice low and even. “If that’s all.”

The quiet dismissal lands harder than any raised voice could have. My face feels suddenly too exposed, every emotion written across it where he can see it. Hurt. Confusion. The sharp sting of being erased by the one person who once knew me better than anyone. I force my chin up, but the corners of my mouth tremble before I can stop them.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, because it’s the only true thing I have left to give him. “For everything.”

He doesn’t look up.

My throat tightens and my eyes sting, and that’s when I remember why I’m actually standing in his office in the first place.

“Jace.” I force my spine straight, force my voice into something steadier. “I’m not just — I’m here for my introductory meeting with you. I’m your new Director of Real Estate Investment.”

That gets his attention. His eyes come back up to mine, and for the first time since I walked in, I see something crack through the flatness — not warmth, nothing close to warmth, just disbelief, sharp and unwelcome.

He studies me for a long moment, jaw working.

“Sit down, Ms. Anderson,” he says finally, and my last name in his mouth is somehow worse than silence. “Let’s get this over with.”

I sit, because staying on my feet feels like it would take more strength than I have left. I fold my hands in my lap to keep them from shaking.

He picks up a sleek silver pen, clicking it with a precise, metallic snap.

“Company policy requires all Director-level hires to report directly to this floor. That is why you’re meeting with me.”

He opens a folder on his desk, his gaze dropping to the paper in front of him, dismissing me without another word.

“Your appointment is effective immediately. You’ll report to the Chief Operating Officer for administrative matters and to me for all investment decisions.”

I blink.

He turns a page.

“Your office is on this floor. Natalie will give you access to the building, your security clearance, and the systems you’ll need.”

I nod, though he isn’t looking at me.

“You’ll be overseeing the company’s real estate investment portfolio, including acquisitions, disposals, and the performance of our existing commercial properties. I expect you to be familiar with every asset under your management. Your first priority is the quarterly real estate portfolio review. I want the complete report on my desk by Friday morning.”

He pauses to make a note.

“Not a summary. The full review. Current valuations, projected returns, outstanding liabilities, and any properties that are underperforming. I want the figures verified before they reach me.”

I swallow.

“Understood.”

He continues as though I haven’t spoken.

“You’ll attend the investment committee meetings. You’ll prepare the reports, present your recommendations, and defend them when they’re challenged. If you have a problem with an acquisition, you bring it to me before you sign anything.”

He closes the folder.

“Your predecessor left three pending acquisitions. I want a complete assessment of all three by the end of next week. You’ll review the due diligence, the financial projections, and the legal documentation. If any of them are not worth pursuing, I expect you to tell me.”

His eyes finally lift to mine.

“I don’t need someone who agrees with me. I need someone who knows what they’re doing.”

The words land harder than they should.

I look down at my hands.

“Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

He reaches for another file.

“And one more thing. You’ll be expected to maintain confidentiality. The information you’ll have access to is commercially sensitive. You do not discuss it outside the company, and you do not share internal documents without authorization.”

He glances at his watch.

“Your first meeting with the investment team is at two. Be on time.”

He looks back down at his desk.

“Anything else?”

My lips part.

I want to say yes.

I want to ask him if he remembers the summer we spent at the lake. If he remembers the promises we made. If he ever thought about me after I left. If he hated me every day, or if there were days when he missed me too.

But his face is blank.

His pen is moving again.

And I understand that whatever I came here hoping to find, he is not going to give it to me.

“No,” I say quietly.

He doesn’t look up.

“Then you can go.”

I nod.

I press my lips together, fighting back a sob that threatens to tear through my chest. The man who used to hold me as if I were the most fragile, precious thing in the world is gone. In his place sits a stranger carved from ice.

I turn on my heel and walk toward the door, my heels clicking softly against the marble floor. As my hand touches the cold silver handle, I pause for just a fraction of a second, hoping—praying—for him to call my name. To break character. To give me anything.

Silence.

I pull open the door and step out into the hallway, leaving the executive office behind.