THREE

CLARA

The conference room was ice-cold and deadly silent, except for the painfully monotone voice from the sales team going over quarterly projections. Something about revenue streams. Or maybe conversion rates. I couldn’t tell. I’d stopped listening after the first ten minutes.

I shifted in my seat, biting the inside of my cheek to stay awake.

The fluorescent lighting above buzzed faintly, adding to my suffering. My eyes drifted to the glass of water in front of me. I didn’t even remember pouring it.

Across the table, Laila caught my eye. Her face was blank but her brows flicked up in that kill me now expression. I gave her a look back that clearly translated to let’s fake an emergency and leave.

She stifled a smile.

Behind her, Damien sat still, silent and unreadable at the head of the table. Black suit. Perfect posture. One hand resting on the table, the other on his lap.

His jaw was tense, and his eyes scanned the room like he was calculating each person’s usefulness.

I felt the heat of his gaze brush past me once. Just once. Barely there. But it was enough to send a chill down my spine.

I blinked hard, staring at the charts on the screen. Still not processing anything.

All I could think about was caffeine, or maybe faking a fire alarm. Something dramatic to put me out of my misery.

I glanced at Laila again. She was doodling on her notepad now. I'm pretty sure it was a stick figure hanging itself. I smiled, exhaled quietly through my nose.

And then—

“Miss Monroe,” Damien’s voice cut through the room like a blade. “Would you like to take over?”

My heart stopped.

Every head turned.

I looked up, wide-eyed. “No—I mean, sorry. No, sir.”

He didn’t blink. “If you’re not ready to contribute,” he said coolly, “I suggest you stop looking like you want to escape.”

My stomach dropped. Heat flooded my face. My mouth went dry, and every eye in the room was either pitying me or secretly thrilled it wasn’t them.

“I wasn’t—” I started, then swallowed. “I’m sorry. Won’t happen again.”

Damien’s expression didn’t change. Not even a flicker.

He turned back to the presenter and gestured for them to continue, like I hadn’t just shriveled up and died in front of everyone.

I kept my eyes on the table. My cheeks were still burning.

Laila nudged my shoe under the table in quiet solidarity.

I didn't nudge back.

The rest of the meeting crawled on painfully. I scribbled random notes to look busy, none of which made sense. Things like “improve workflow synergy?” and “don’t get publicly humiliated next time.”

When it finally ended, people started gathering their papers and fake-smiling their way toward the door.

Damien stood without a word. No eye contact. No acknowledgment. He walked out, calm and untouchable.

I waited exactly three seconds before I bolted.

Laila followed me into the hallway, catching up in three long strides.

“Are you okay?” she whispered, clutching her tablet like a shield.

“Totally fine,” I muttered, power-walking like my dignity was on fire. “Just the professional equivalent of being pantsed in front of the entire school. No big deal.”

She winced. “He was watching you.”

“I wasn’t doing anything!”

“You were making faces at me.”

“I always make faces at you.”

She nodded solemnly. “Well… now you’ve been publicly shamed into silence.”

“Perfect. I love that journey for me.”

We stopped near the break room, pretending to look over the event board in case anyone from the meeting walked by. I leaned against the wall, heart still thudding in my chest.

Laila lowered her voice. “Think he was pissed?”

“He’s always pissed.”

“Or maybe…” She gave me a pointed look. “He just wanted your attention.”

I shot her a glare. “Do not start.”

“I’m just saying. That man gives angry foreplay energy.”

“Oh my God.”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

I rubbed my temples, trying to erase the sound of his voice from my memory. Miss Monroe… would you like to take over?

I hated how his tone still lingered in my head. Calm. Measured. Sharp enough to slice my ego in half. And I hated even more that a part of me—not a proud part—got warm under the heat of it.

He didn’t even raise his voice. He didn’t have to. One sentence and I felt like a child who got caught passing notes in church.

“I just need coffee,” I said finally. “Or maybe a job that doesn’t make me want to spontaneously combust on a Wednesday.”

Laila reached into her tote and handed me a protein bar. “You need blood sugar. And maybe therapy.”

I sighed. “Probably both.”

The second I stepped back into my office after lunch with Laila, I slammed the door shut and launched myself into my chair like it owed me something.

I yanked open my laptop, fingers already moving.

Because I had forgotten.

Not something small. Not an email or a meeting reminder.

No.

I had forgotten the report.

The detailed background dossier on Holloway & Crest—a boutique firm Damien was considering for a merger.

I was supposed to have it prepped and printed today. First thing.

It was now past one.

And I had nothing.

Of all the damn days to be caught slipping...

“God, Clara,” I muttered, dragging a shaky hand through my hair. I whispered a series of panicked curses under my breath, trying to channel my sheer terror into productivity.

My keyboard clacked in frantic rhythm as I scoured old emails and opened way too many tabs.

Investor history. Leadership bios. Pending litigations. Public records.

I was grabbing anything that looked remotely intelligent and stitching it into a narrative that looked more “strategy brief” and less “Google crash course.”

If I could get it together in the next twenty minutes, maybe he wouldn’t notice.

That’s when my phone rang.

I stared at the screen, praying I was hallucinating.

Damien Holt.

My heart dropped into the soles of my heels.

I answered, breath caught in my throat. “Hello?”

“I need the report in my office. Now.”

Then—click.

No room for questions. No room for breath. Just a corporate guillotine of a sentence.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.” I nearly chanted it, clicking ‘print’ with fingers that had forgotten how to function.

The printer whined like it was personally offended by my procrastination. Every page took its sweet, slow time spitting out.

I grabbed the half-baked report, slid it into a folder like that would magically make it look more professional, and threw on my blazer even though I felt like throwing myself out the window would’ve been more appropriate.

My heels suddenly felt like they weighed twenty pounds. Each step down the hallway echoed like a countdown to execution.

I paused outside his office door, heart pounding against my ribs like it wanted out. I closed my eyes. Inhaled. Knocked once.

“Come in,” he said. Voice calm. Controlled.

I stepped inside.

He didn’t look up.

He was behind his desk, flipping through something with the quiet ruthlessness of someone who always knew more than you.

His sleeves were rolled up, his tie loosened, the top button undone—but somehow, none of it made him look relaxed. He looked lethal.

I hated that I noticed his watch again. Silver. Sleek. Always catching the light like it knew it was expensive.

I waited. Silent. Frozen. Dying inside.

He finally spoke.

“Clara. The report?”

I stepped forward and placed the folder on the desk with all the dignity I could muster, which was not much.

He still didn’t look at it.

Or me.

“I’m... still working on it, sir,” I said quietly.

That got his attention.

He looked up. One brow arched slowly. The kind of expression that didn’t need volume to make its point.

“Still working on it?” His voice stayed calm. “You had the entire weekend.”

I opened my mouth. Big mistake.

“I got distracted. I thought I could—”

He stood.

Not fast. Not loud. Just... deliberate.

Something about the way he moved made the air thicken. The space between us turned into a pressure point.

He walked around the desk slowly, like a man with no reason to rush. Every step made me more aware of how unprepared I was—how hot my cheeks were, how my pulse had crawled up into my throat.

Then he stopped right in front of me.

Not touching.

But close enough that I could feel his presence curling around my spine.

The room shrank.

I swallowed hard.

“You’re sorry?” he asked, voice like glass—clean and cutting.

I nodded. “I am.”

He tilted his head slightly.

“Oh, you’re not.”

That made me blink.

He stepped just a fraction closer. Not much. But enough for me to feel the heat of his breath along my cheek.

The scent of him—clean, crisp, expensive—wrapped around me like a thread I didn’t want to tug on.

“But you will be.”