Forgiveness Isn't Free: James Davidson Returns

chapter 9

Rose Brooks – Two Weeks Later

It had been two weeks since the divorce was finalized, and Rose had never looked better—or freer. She wore freedom like a designer perfume. Expensive, intoxicating, and impossible to ignore.

Seated at a candlelit table in the exclusive Roseheart Lounge atop the Marquee Hotel, Rose clinked her wine glass against Charles’s and leaned back with a satisfied smirk. The view of the skyline glittered around them like they were gods looking down at peasants. Her dress was red, backless, and scandalous in the best way. Her makeup—flawless. Her laugh? Louder now. Bolder.

“Honestly, Charles,” she said, lips curling into a smile as she twirled her fork around a bite of risotto, “this city finally feels like mine.”

Charles smirked across the table. “It’s yours, baby. Everything here is below your level now. Especially certain people.”

Rose’s eyes narrowed slightly but amusement glimmered in her gaze. She knew who he meant. James.

James Davidson.

The man who had once been her husband, once captured her heart—and then refused to bend to her whims. He’d seemed like someone once. Mysterious. Driven. But by the time the divorce was finalized, he was just another man who couldn’t keep up. Broke. Quiet. Obsolete.

She hadn’t heard from him in weeks, and she didn’t care.

Or at least she told herself that.

The sound of the elevator doors opening pulled her attention toward the entrance of the restaurant—and her breath hitched for just a second.

There he was.

James.

Tall. Impeccably dressed in a black three-piece suit, hair slicked back, clean-shaven. He looked… colder. Sharper. Like a weapon that had been honed in fire.

Rose straightened slowly in her seat, fork pausing mid-air.

Charles cursed under his breath. “What the hell is he doing here?”

The smugness bloomed instantly in Rose’s chest. “Probably lost,” she said sweetly, waving for the waiter. “Or maybe looking for a free meal.”

James walked in slowly, his eyes scanning the room, indifferent to the curious glances following him. He didn’t look at her, didn’t even acknowledge her existence.

Rose’s smile slipped.

The maître d’ approached James quickly and whispered something. James simply nodded and moved to the private room near the back—elegant, velvet-draped doors guarding what was clearly a VIP space.

Her irritation flared. He doesn’t even belong here.

“Excuse me,” Rose said loudly, motioning for the manager. “Who let that man in?”

The manager approached her table carefully. “Mrs. Davidson—”

“Ex-i'm miss Brooks ,” she corrected sharply. “That man shouldn’t even be allowed in this part of the hotel. This is a high-class establishment. He can't afford this.”

Charles laughed beside her, adding fuel. “He used to own some tiny logistics company that went bankrupt, didn’t he? What’s he doing here—begging for dinner?”

The manager glanced nervously toward the private room where James had entered. “Mr. Davidson is here to meet a VVIP guest—”

“And I’m a VVIP guest,” Rose snapped, voice rising. “I don’t want him anywhere near this floor. In fact, call security. Tell them to remove him.”

The manager hesitated.

Rose folded her arms. “Are you refusing a guest request?”

“No, ma’am. It’s just that…” the manager swallowed, eyes darting back to the private room. “Let me confirm with Mr. Morgan.”

Charles chuckled. “What’s there to confirm? He’s trash. He shouldn’t be here.”

Minutes passed.

Then the velvet doors opened again.

Out stepped a tall, silver-haired man—Mr. Vincent Morgan, the reclusive billionaire who’d just moved major investments across Europe. Everyone wanted a meeting with him, and few ever got it.

He didn’t speak to James.

He didn’t speak to anyone.

He pointed.

At Rose.

And Charles.

And said one word.

“Out.”

The entire restaurant went dead silent.

Rose blinked, confused. “Excuse me?”

Mr. Morgan didn’t look at her. His voice was calm but final. “Your presence here is no longer welcome.”

Charles jumped up. “What the hell? Do you know who we are?”

“I do,” Mr. Morgan said. “That’s exactly why I’m asking you to leave. Mr. Davidson is a man I respect. You—” he looked at Charles with disgust “—are a man who beds another man’s wife and then mocks him in public.”

Rose stood abruptly. Her voice shook—not with fear, but outrage. “This is a mistake. James doesn’t even belong in this place. He’s a nobody!”

“Really?” Mr. Morgan tilted his head. “Because the man you’re mocking is the chairman of Davidson Holdings. And Davidson Holdings just acquired a 28% stake in Marquee Group. Which means this hotel… is his.”

The words hit like a punch to the chest.

Rose stared at him.

“What?”

Mr. Morgan didn’t flinch. “You can leave quietly, or security will assist you.”

The manager appeared with two guards at his side. “Shall I escort them, sir?”

Rose’s legs wouldn’t move. Her face was burning. She looked at James for the first time since the announcement, her lips parting—but he didn’t say a word.

He just stood there.

Silent.

Powerful.

Untouchable.

His eyes met hers once—cold, distant—and then he turned away, walking back into the private room like none of this had affected him.

Because it hadn’t.

It had destroyed her.

Charles grabbed her arm. “Let’s go, Rose. Now.”