Chapter 3: Neither Does He Love Me
Caitlin's POV
Ryan didn't even blink when I dropped the bomb.
"That's it?" he asked, sprawled on his couch like he didn't have a care in the world. "Three years, and that's all you've got?"
I adjusted my jacket, trying to ignore how his T-shirt still smelled like us. "What'd you expect? Some big dramatic breakup speech?"
"Honestly?" He shrugged, that infuriating half-smile tugging at his lips. "We were never serious anyway, sweetheart. This was always just... convenient."
The casual brush-off hit harder than I'd expected. Three years of late-night texts, of being his go-to when the bars closed and he needed someone warm and willing. Three years of pretending I didn't care that he never took me out in public, never introduced me to his bandmates, never treated me like more than a reliable booty call.
"Right. Convenient." I forced a laugh. "Well, now it's inconvenient."
I was halfway down the stairs when I heard it—the flick of his Zippo lighter. The bastard had lit up before I'd even cleared the building.
So much for quitting.
My apartment felt like a museum when I got home—all clean lines and fancy furniture that nobody actually used.
had left Italian takeout in the fridge. Of course he had. The container was labeled in his neat handwriting: "Tuesday dinner—heat for 2 mins, extra parm in the door."
I nuked the pasta and ate it standing at the kitchen counter, staring out at the city lights while some trashy reality show droned on in the background. On screen, beautiful people were making all the worst relationship choices, which felt weirdly on-brand for my life right now.
Daniel and Emily. That's a thing now.
The thought kept looping in my head, no matter how hard I tried to zone out on the TV. Daniel, who made me breakfast every Tuesday without me even asking. Daniel, who knew exactly how I liked my coffee and which side of the bed I preferred. Daniel, who was probably at Emily's place right now, being the perfect boyfriend he'd never quite been for me.
"Fuck that," I muttered to my empty apartment.
I grabbed my laptop and started scrolling rental listings. It was time to stop living in the shadow of Daniel's careful little domestic routine.
Wednesday morning hit without the usual smell of Daniel's signature breakfast blend. No coffee brewing, no bacon sizzling, no quiet sounds of someone who actually gave a damn about my day-to-day.
His running shoes were gone from beside the door. So was the spare jacket he kept in my hall closet. The only sign he'd ever been here was the empty spaces where his stuff used to sit.
My phone buzzed: "Emergency trip to DC. Back Friday maybe. OJ in the fridge—Daniel."
Short. Professional. Like a note from a roommate I barely knew.
I deleted it without replying.
The office gossip started buzzing before lunch.
"Did you see the woman who came looking for Patrick this morning?" Sarah from contracts was practically vibrating with excitement as she stirred sugar into her coffee. "Gorgeous blonde, looked like she stepped right off a magazine cover."
"Probably another client," Dave, our senior associate, muttered. "Some rich divorcée out to bleed her ex dry."
"No way. This was personal. You should've seen how she smiled at him when he came down to get her. Very... intimate."
I wasn't really listening. My mind was stuck on Daniel's empty coffee mug in my dishwasher, Ryan's casual dismissal, and the growing list of apartments I'd bookmarked on my laptop.
"That's great," I said absently. "They're probably perfect for each other."
"What's perfect for whom?"
Patrick's voice sliced through the break room like a knife. He stood in the doorway, still in his court suit, looking every bit the senior partner who'd just spent the morning dismantling opposing counsel.
The room's temperature dropped ten degrees. Sarah suddenly got real interested in her coffee cup, and Dave mumbled something about work before bolting like his ass was on fire.
"Nothing," I said, meeting Patrick's stare head-on. "Just office chatter."
His gray eyes studied my face for a long beat, and I felt that familiar twist low in my belly. Patrick Blake—my boss.
Three years ago, Washington, D.C. The Willard Hotel, where all the real deals in legal circles went down after the conferences wrapped.
I'd been subbing for Sandra, who'd gotten hit with food poisoning the day before the American Bar Association's big networking gala. Lucky me—I spent the evening in an overpriced ballroom, making small talk with partners from firms that wouldn't normally glance my way.
Patrick had been drinking. By the time we hit the elevator, the tension between us could've lit up the whole building. I told myself I was just helping my drunk boss get to his room safely. Professional courtesy.
Then he kissed me.
Not soft, not tentative—Patrick Blake didn't do anything halfway. He backed me against the elevator wall and kissed me like he owned me, his hand fisted in my hair, his body pressed against mine until I couldn't think straight.
I could've stopped it. Should've stopped it. Instead, I kissed him back just as hard.
The next morning, I woke up in his bed wearing nothing but his dress shirt from the night before. Patrick was already showered and suited up, looking like the powerhouse attorney who'd never lost control in his life.
He transferred a million bucks to my account while I watched.
"What's this for?" I asked, though I already knew.
"Last night was..." He paused, picking his words like evidence in a trial. "Unprofessional. This makes it professional."
I should've been pissed. Should've thrown the money back in his face and reported him to HR. Instead, something clicked into place, like a puzzle piece I'd been missing.
"So what are we now?"
"At the office, we're senior partner and associate. Nothing more, nothing less." Patrick straightened his tie, avoiding my eyes. "Outside, we're an arrangement. Mutually beneficial. Discreet."
An arrangement. I liked that. Clean. No mess. No emotions or expectations getting in the way.
Holy shit, I'm a millionaire.
Since then, it'd been exactly what he'd promised—professional. He'd call, I'd show up, we'd fuck, and I'd leave. Simple. He never asked me to stay over, never suggested dinner after, never cared about my life beyond what I brought to his bed.
Perfect.
Patrick's words pulled me back to reality. "I can drive you home tonight," he said.
"I have plans anyway." I finally met his gaze, noting the slight tighten of his jaw. "I'm meeting someone for dinner."
Something flickered across his face—too quick to read, too risky to call out. Our arrangement didn't include jealousy. It didn't include giving a damn about each other's free time.
"A date?" The question hung there, loaded with stuff we weren't supposed to feel.
"Yeah," I said simply.
Patrick nodded once, sharp and all business. "Have a good evening, then."
