“There you are, angel,” I sigh when you finally open the door to your office, pushing myself off the frame to kiss your cheek. “Are you done working yet? We have lunch reservations in 15 minutes.”

One man is standing behind me looking around the hallway on alert, while another is waiting in the parking garage with my black Range Rover. I don’t usually have my men join me everywhere I go like clingy dogs, but when I’m with you, I take zero risks.

We’ve been dating for two years. Two years. The longest I ever spent with someone before you was two weeks.

You’re the love of my life. The light in the darkness of my world. I’m the King of this city, and you’re my Queen.

“Got you these,” I grin as I hand you a bouquet of red roses. You don’t take them, simply staring at me with an unamused expression.

Okay, fine. We ‘broke up’ a week ago.

But let’s be real, that wasn’t a breakup. I know you’re smart, so you should know this. But every time I show up at your work or apartment with a new gift and date plans, you act like we actually broke up. Like you actually aren’t my girlfriend anymore. Like you actually could ever dream of dating anyone else.

Crazy, right?

“C’mon baby, we’re gonna be late.” I say seriously, gesturing for you to walk with me.