When History Repeats Itself

Second Place Syndrome

After another sleepover filled with warm, respectful cuddles and the kind of careful distance you reserve for someone else's partner — I'd hit my limit.

Dom had been locked up in his office all day. Lunch delivered, blinds drawn. Barely a nod in my direction.

I understood that we kept things strictly professional during work hours — that was our rule — but still. Every time he passed me without so much as grazing my arm, my chest folded in on itself.

It was past six. I was packing up, already halfway out the door when Paba gave me the look. The "you're summoned" look. No words, just an eyebrow raise and a nod toward his office.

I walked in with more bite than usual, lips pressed tight, hand still on the door handle when he said, without even looking up, "Keep the door open."

Right. As if the ghost of HR was about to apparate onto the executive floor after hours.

Four people on this floor. His uncle had left hours ago, Paba was halfway to the elevator, and nobody — nobody — came up here after close of business. But Dom was Dom. Ever careful. Ever contained.

"I might have to go to Tokyo this weekend," he said, leaning back in his chair, eyes finally lifting to meet mine. Watching. Waiting.

My chest prickled. My fingers curled around the strap of my bag.

"Grand," I said, my voice iced over. "Should I ask Paba to make the usual reservations?"

I didn't have to spell it out. He knew exactly what I meant.

Tokyo meant Aoki.

And "usual reservations" meant the boutique hotel ten minutes from her mansion. The one he always checked out of early so he could spend the rest of the trip at her place.

He knew what it would do to me. And still, he'd said it.

"Kerry—"

I held up a hand. "Have a good night, Mr. Chase."

I left before he could finish whatever delicate, half-hearted sentence he was preparing.

My hands shook as I packed the last of my things. I didn't wait for the elevator doors to fully open. Didn't look back.

The moment I got into my car, the tears came—sharp, fast, ugly.

I swiped at my cheeks with the heel of my palm. Furious. At him. At myself. At all of it.

So this was it. I was the safe girlfriend. The emotional support girl. The one he could talk to, laugh with, share meals with... but never fully want.

Not when there was Aoki.

He'd fly halfway across the world to see her. Probably leave claw marks on her thighs.

Meanwhile, I wore lace and longing... and got handed a T-shirt.

Maybe he thought I was too fragile to want.

Or worse—maybe I just wasn't enough.

I ignored his calls. Put my phone on silent the second I walked through the front door.

Skipped dinner. Slammed the bathroom door. Curled under my duvet and hugged the covers like they could explain what the hell I did wrong.

Sumaya was on night duty. Alexa was out of the question — she'd tell me to "woman up" and end it before I got in too deep. Damien was definitely a no. My father? Please. Aunt Jamila would tease. My mother would say, That's a good man.