---
Chapter 60 – Amara's POV
"Let Him Sweat"
I felt him before I saw him.
You know that funny, fluttery kind of feeling that makes your chest tighten — not from fear, but from something else? That was exactly what happened the moment I sensed Ethan Lantel walking toward my desk.
It had been two weeks since that night at the restaurant. Since he dragged me outside like I was some misbehaving possession. Since he broke whatever fragile thread still connected us after that one unforgettable night.
And now, here he was.
I didn't look up at first. I kept my eyes glued to my screen, typing nonsense just to appear busy. But inside, my heart was drumming, loud and chaotic, like it was trying to remind me: You still feel something for him.
Stupid heart.
He said my name — soft, low, careful.
"Amara."
And just like that, the butterflies stirred.
I hated that my body reacted. That I could still remember how his voice sounded when he wasn't mad. When he was gentle. When he whispered things against my neck that night, his hands in my hair…
Nope. Stop it. I shut the thought down.
"Mr. Lantel," I said, cold and even, without glancing up.
I felt him tense. Good.
He tried to sound calm, tried to ease his way into the conversation like we were just coworkers. Like he hadn't broken something.
"Can we talk?"
I wanted to roll my eyes, but I kept my expression smooth.
Truth was — and I hated admitting it, even to myself — I had already forgiven him.
I forgave him days ago.
Before the apology. Before the awkward, nervous energy in his eyes. Before this morning, when I saw him glance into the office like he was searching for someone — me, obviously.
But here's the thing: forgiveness doesn't mean forgetting.
And it definitely doesn't mean letting someone walk right back into your life without sweating a little first.
So I made him sweat.
"I don't think that's appropriate during office hours," I said, still not looking at him. I could practically feel his confusion. I was being calm, professional… deadly.
He didn't expect that.
He thought I'd yell. Or cry. Or storm off.
But I wasn't giving him drama.
I was giving him distance.
And judging by the way his voice dropped, quiet and urgent, it was working.
"I just… I need five minutes."
His tone made something stir in my chest again. That damn warmth. That stupid softness I always tried to hide when it came to him.
I looked up finally. Met his eyes.
He looked like a man barely holding it together.
Good.
"You hurt me," I told him, plain and simple.
Because he needed to hear it. Not because I was still angry — I wasn't — but because he needed to carry the weight of what he'd done. He needed to know that dragging a woman out of a restaurant like he owned her was the kind of thing you don't just get to apologize for and erase.
He said sorry. Multiple times.
But the truth was, even before he uttered those words, I knew.
I knew he regretted it.
I saw it in his eyes, in his silence, in the way he hadn't tried to force contact for two whole weeks. Ethan Lantel, the arrogant billionaire with the world at his feet, hadn't so much as emailed me a "hello." That alone told me he was hurting too.
And I liked that.
I liked that he was uncomfortable.
I liked that he had to sit with his guilt and wonder if I'd ever speak to him again.
It wasn't revenge.
It was justice.
Because I'd spent too much of my life forgiving people too quickly. Too easily. Letting them off the hook with a smile and a nod like my feelings didn't matter.
Not this time.
So when I told him, "I'm not ready," it wasn't about punishing him.
It was about choosing myself.
Still, after he walked away — shoulders heavy, steps slower than usual — I allowed myself a little smile.
Not a smug one.
A knowing one.
Because I saw it in his face.
He wasn't just sorry.
He was devastated.
He looked like a man who realized he'd just lost the one thing he didn't even know he was holding onto until it slipped through his fingers.
And maybe he had.
Or maybe I'd let him suffer a little longer — just enough to make sure he truly meant it when he said he wanted to be better.
Just enough to make sure this wasn't guilt. This was growth.
As I returned to my work, I felt lighter.
It surprised me — that forgiveness didn't feel like surrender this time. It didn't feel like weakness.
It felt… powerful.
I was in control.
And if Ethan really wanted me back — not just in his office, but in his life — he'd have to work for it.
Because this time, I was worth the effort.
And I wanted him to sweat every step of the way.