One Night Only

The Road to Apologies

"No way in bloody hell she'll just forgive me... right?"

Byron stared at the cracked mirror inside a grimy gas station restroom, his own reflection a fractured mess. He wasn't sure what the girls were planning, but the road from California to New York had been long, and now they were here—at Burdine's doorstep.

Minutes ticked by as his mind spiraled through the possibilities of an apology. A real one. But was forgiveness even an option? No amount of regret, no amount of carefully chosen words, could erase what he had done. He had sent her into a goddamn death trap.

Since America Rocks, there has been an all-out legal war between them. What was at stake? A metric ton of money and a ridiculous amount of legalities. Most importantly? A public apology in front of thousands of people. A formal statement that he, Byron Powell, had wronged Burdine Maxwell, and a promise that he would distribute free copies of Your Thing magazine.

It was the kind of denial he had clung to for years.

Really? A grand I'm sorry on a public stage, handing out a magazine he absolutely and positively despised? She could dream, bitch.

And yet, reality hit harder than his pride. Your Thing wasn't the literary dumpster fire he had once claimed. Sure, it was still a Victorian-inspired mess with an unbearable amount of pink, but at least it had toned down the excess. At its core, it was a tribute to older women reclaiming their authenticity. He could respect that.

Not that Burdine was any less infuriating. She was still an overgrown child with the attitude of a queen, the style of a pensioner, and the physique of a skeleton draped in pink. But beneath all that? There was something else. Something he had never quite put his finger on.

The world didn't know her as he did.

For fifteen years, Burdine Maxwell had been a prime secret agent—one of the best in her field. She and Prudence had dominated an elite espionage division within The Fashion Police, an undercover initiative disguising operatives as designers to infiltrate criminal organizations like ESA. The problem? Burdine was a fashion designer. She had never held a gun, never done reconnaissance, never been the cutthroat strategist he had assumed her to be.
She was just... Burdine.

"I remember seeing her," Byron muttered, smirking at his reflection. "That ridiculous little blonde bun, the pink summer dress, and her bloody notebook, ready to give a wardrobe makeover to international criminals."

He exhaled, staring at the grimy floor. His chest ached.

"I should have talked to her then," he admitted. "Instead, I just watched from afar, thinking the whole thing was madness."

Never in his wildest dreams did he expect their paths to cross again years later—arguing over dogs on a plane.

"Byron?"

He turned sharply. Yasmin had stepped into the men's restroom, concern laced in her voice.

"Oh, hi, darling," he forced a smirk. "Apologies, I was just... strategizing my grand reunion with Burdine."

"Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Of course. I'm all ears. What's on your mind?"

Yasmin hesitated before reaching for his hands. Byron was always meticulous about cleanliness, and she knew damn well if anyone was washing their hands excessively, it was him. The warmth of her cinnamon-toned fingers against his skin made his pulse quicken.

Her eyes held a softness, like the olive branches in the most magnificent orchard. But the silence? The silence was driving him insane.

"Dear, you know you can tell me anything, right? I'm not one to judge."