**Chapter 8** I messed up. I messed up royally. When Cliff informed me that Farrah had an explosive phone call, something primal awoke within me. It was a tightening sensation in my chest, laced with a protective instinct I struggled to define. I had planned to step into her office, check on her, maybe even offer to arrange extra security for her after hours. But the moment my eyes landed on that bruise—a stark mark shaped like a fist—on her cheek, the world around me disintegrated. The memory of that one time, where a scumbag cornered Liv against a wall outside a restaurant, flashed in my mind. I had walked into that scene, rage blinding my logic, and I had pounced. I smashed the guy’s face into oblivion, breaking ribs in the process. But did I feel remorse? Hell no. No man gets to lay a hand on a woman—not on my watch. Not on those I care about. But there it was, that nagging voice in my mind reminding me that I didn’t give a damn about Farrah. I was just her boss, nothing more. I tried to assure myself that my feelings on seeing Farrah hurt were just as strong for any other employee. But the truth flickered painfully in my mind: I had never reacted like this before, not even after three years of working alongside Mia. And yet, here I was, fixated on Farrah. An hour slipped by, then two, and the silence between us thickened. I listened as she spoke on the phone with various suppliers, her voice vibrant and engaging as she discussed installation details for lighting, bathroom fixtures, and those luxurious soaker tubs that mimicked Calcutta marble. I couldn't help but smile, despite the tension looming in the air. As the week trudged on, I maintained my distance, speaking only when absolutely necessary, my eyes unwittingly drawn to her fading bruise, transforming from an angry purple to wretched greens and yellows. I could see the hurt in her eyes when she gingerly brought me coffee on Wednesday, and I turned it down, claiming I had already had my fill. I sensed the subtle resignation in her voice when she offered me gum on Thursday, which I declined. But when Friday appeared, and she suggested lunch, I could feel the hope within her falter when I brushed off her invitation. “Gage, I—” she began hesitantly. I interrupted her, my voice cool and flat. “It’s Mr. Griffen.” Her eyebrows shot up, and a smile danced on her lips—a small spark of joy amidst our tense interactions. How could she still find something to smile about? “Why are you smiling at me?” I asked, exasperated. I had just snubbed her, after all. “You just reminded me of Andrew. Earlier this week, he insisted he'd only be called ‘Flame.’” I couldn't suppress the snort that slipped from my lips, the absurdity of it hitting me too quickly. “Flame? What’s the reason behind that?” She lowered her voice, scrunching her face in mock seriousness. “Because it’s like, way cooler, bruh.” She rolled her eyes. “No one ever tells you that when you have boys, it’s all ‘mama,’ ‘mommy,’ ‘mom,’ and then you end up with ‘bruh.’” I chuckled against my better judgment. The way she spoke about her children, with such warmth and humor, drew me in deeper, casting a spell I didn’t know I was under. “Unfortunately, Mr. Griffen doesn’t quite compare to ‘Flame’ in the coolness department, but it does maintain professionalism.” Something I consistently struggled to uphold when she was around. Her lips formed a pout. “But that means…” She sighed, shaking her head. Her curls bounced, making it hard for me to focus. “Never mind.” “What is it?” I prodded. She pushed her computer aside, frowning. “It sounds childish.” I raised a brow and locked my gaze onto hers. “Now I have to know.” She squirmed in her seat, clearly uncomfortable. “It’s just… When you call me Ms. Elkins, all I hear is my ex-husband’s name. I understand this is a workplace and you’re trying to be professional, but it’s like a knife twisting my back every time I’m reminded of everything I gave up to be Mrs. Farrah Elkins.” That familiar pang of empathy hit me, a punch to the gut that left me disoriented. Emotions were supposed to be kept buried in business, yet with Farrah, they clawed their way to the surface. Every interaction she had, whether it was negotiating with suppliers or offering Cliff an extra cup of coffee, was infused with feeling. And now, as she fixed her gaze on me, a mix of pain, hope, and embarrassment swirling in her deep brown eyes, I found it impossible to separate my own emotions from the reality of our business relationship. “Would you prefer ‘Flame’?” My voice came out raspy, unsteady. She giggled, the lightness melding with the atmosphere. “Farrah will do.” With a resigned sigh, aware that this decision may haunt me later, I finally relented. “I am hungry, if the offer still stands.” In an instant, she reached for her purse with a bright smile. “My treat.” Her assumption that she would be paying—absurd as it was—made me appreciate her even more. Here was a woman who willingly offered to treat me while knowing full well I could buy anything I desired. She wouldn’t take advantage of me, and that just wrapped her deeper into my good graces. We stepped out, both of us clicking our car keys in unison. “You can’t possibly think you’re driving,” I said, amusement spilling over. She arched an eyebrow playfully. “What? Is a minivan not good enough for a billionaire?” I laughed; it brought me back to memories I hadn’t visited in years. “I spent half my childhood in a minivan with all the driving we did for sports games and appointments. A ten-year-old Dodge Caravan with light gray fabric is what I’m talking about. It showed every single stain.” Farrah smiled as she approached her driver’s side. “Well, this should be a treat. Leather seats and it even has a built-in vacuum.” Once inside, she typed an address into her phone and plugged it into a charging cord, letting it rest in the cupholder. The map on her dash directed us toward 214 Brews. “I know the owner,” I mentioned casually. She shook her head, rolling her eyes. “Of course you do. Rich people always know people. Isn’t that the secret to wealth?” “Part of it,” I admitted with a smirk. “Caleb, my ex, was forever ‘networking’ to sell insurance.” “Insurance, huh? For what company?” I asked, curiosity piqued. If he was linked to any of our business dealings, I needed to know. “Green Line Mutual,” she replied with a casual shrug. “A smaller firm based in Austin.” Noted. We lapsed into silence, an uncomfortable one, the kind that felt heavy between two people who should be connecting. I’d missed our conversations—her lively spirit and the emotions she stirred in me. There was something about her unpredictability that intrigued me, a feeling I knew I shouldn't entertain. “How was the game this weekend? Besides the wayward ball?” I asked, eager to break the icy barrier. Her groan echoed softly as she glanced at me, then back to the road. “It was terrible. Levi didn’t leave the bench until the last inning, and then he struck out.” I winced, feeling the sting of her frustration. “That’s rough.” Her hands animatedly conveyed her feelings as she spoke. “And of course, his dad didn’t bother showing up. Missing games was bearable when Levi saw him every night, but now that we’re in different towns, it hurts that much more.” Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the steering wheel with intensity. “Levi was one of the better players in Austin, but he’s older than all the other boys now. He’s in a new environment, and he needs all the support he can get while he adjusts to the faster pitches and hits.” As her words reached me, gears turned in my mind, the pieces connecting. “I played baseball in high school. I was always bigger than my age, but the transition to the high school team felt monumental. I’m sure he’ll catch on. But you— we might need to wrap you in bubble wrap for the games to avoid injuries from foul balls.” Her half-amused, half-surprised smile lit up the car. “Oh really?” “We can’t afford to lose our interior designer to a wayward baseball. The floors are looking fantastic, by the way.” The radiance of her smile was infectious. “Just wait until you see the other designs I have planned! I found a great vendor from central Kansas with stunning wall treatments. Our order was large enough that they’re sending a team over in two weeks to install them. Everything should be ready by the month’s end!” A swell of pride filled my chest at her accomplishments in such a short period. But accompanying that pride was the persistent concern over potential opening delays that might cost us dearly. “And what about the furniture?” “Leave that to me,” she said, a mischievous glimmer in her eyes. As we parked and entered the restaurant, Farrah twirled with delight, marveling at every detail from the crystal-clear light fixtures to the rugged brick floors and plush leather booths. While I didn’t notice the details like she did, the atmosphere of the place resonated with me. It struck just the right balance—neither too upscale nor a common sports bar. A server approached and took our orders, and Farrah settled in with a refreshing strawberry lemonade while my choice leaned toward iced tea. Sunlight streamed through the windows, casting a warm glow that danced across her features. Her hair, previously viewed as merely brunette, unveiled itself as a beautiful tapestry woven with shades of brown and blonde. “I feel a bit guilty for unloading all of that about my ex earlier,” she confessed, an edge of concern threading through her voice. “Don’t feel guilty,” I replied, my sincerity unwavering. “What happened between you two must have been deeply painful.” She nodded slowly, her gaze dropping to her glass. “It’s hard because I don’t want to tarnish his image in front of the kids. They idolize him, and it hurts every time I see that.” I was bewildered. In the time I’d known Farrah, she had been effortless in her kindness and upbeat nature. “How could he have let you go?” The words escaped my lips before caution could temper them, but I felt no regret. Problem-solving was my forte, and perhaps unearthing this part of her would act as a deterrent, a warning to keep me at arm's length. There was already ample reason—she was my employee, a newly divorced mother with three children. Farrah stirred her straw in her drink, creating soft sounds of tinkling ice. “When you have kids, they become your world. Twenty-three hours a day revolves around them—caring, worrying, cleaning, cooking… And then you steal that last hour for yourself to do things like showering or combing your hair.” She sighed. “I wonder if I had focused more on my marriage if things would be different, but I didn’t even realize we had problems until my yearly exam.” Fear gripped my heart. I didn’t want her to divulge that she’d received life-altering news, and the thought of losing her sent shadows creeping in. My protective instincts surged. “Turns out, my doctor does an STD test for every married woman as a routine check, and mine came back positive for HPV. I was convinced it was a mistake until I confronted him, and that’s when it all unraveled. He’d been cheating for years. Picking up moms at school events. Sleeping around on business trips. Even his secretary—someone I had hosted for dinner at our home multiple times without a clue.” Her eyes glimmered with unshed tears as she blinked rapidly. “I couldn’t stay with him. Not after finding out that the man I thought I knew had been lying to me right under my nose, stealing precious family time to be with other women, all without a second thought.” My grip on my cup tightened, a tumult of fury swelling within me at the injustice she’d endured. But even more infuriating was the way Farrah placed part of the blame on herself, as if she could have changed the trajectory of their marriage. She was stunning—curvy, captivating—her smile a beacon of warmth. How could someone let go of that? “Look at me, Farrah,” I urged, my voice low but charged with intensity. Her brown eyes met mine, deep and vulnerable like the soft petals of a bluebonnet teetering on the edge of a glacier. “Don’t you ever allow a man to make you doubt your worth. You deserve his unwavering attention, loyalty, and love. You do, Farrah. You are not defined by what he did to you.”