Clara’s POV

The Week of the Pitch

By Monday morning, the entire office buzzed with a low, vibrating tension that clung to the walls like humidity before a storm. Conversations dropped into hushed tones, nervous fingers clicked pens, and the clicking of heels down hallways seemed more urgent. There was a weight to the air an unspoken sense that something was coming. Something big.

And at the center of it all: MajorsTech.

The name was enough to still conversations. One of the biggest acquisition potentials the firm had seen in the last year. With them came the promise of money, expansion, headlines and pressure. So much pressure, it sat like a stone in my gut.

Because Damien Holt had handed that presentation to me. Not to a senior. Not to one of the seasoned suits on the fifteenth floor. To me.

It felt like I’d been handed a crown or a sword. I wasn’t sure which.

Two days left.

And then I’d be standing alone in the boardroom. No lifeline. No backup.

No Damien.

I waited by the elevator, coffee in one hand, nerves tapping like raindrops against my ribs. I hadn’t seen Damien all morning. Not in the executive hallway. Not during the early touchpoints.

I wasn’t proud of it, but I’d checked.

When the elevator doors slid open, instead of the man I hoped for, I saw his assistant, Nora.

She looked frazzled eyes darting, phone in one hand, tablet in the other.

“Morning,” I said, stepping in beside her.

She gave a quick nod, distracted. “He’s flying out later.”

“Zurich?” I asked before I could stop myself.

Her eyes flicked toward me. “Yeah. Corporate summit. Some cross-border M&A thing. Strict schedule. Private jet.”

I nodded, trying to keep my expression neutral. My stomach dipped.

“Did he leave anything for me?”

She smirked a little. “Check your inbox.”

We stepped off on our respective floors, and as she turned, she glanced at me again with the kind of curiosity that said she knows something. Or thinks she does.

Great.

Sure enough, the email was waiting for me.

"Clara,

I’ve reviewed your draft twice. Strong structure. Sharp logic. Keep the confidence up during Q&A they’re sharks, not puppies.

If they push hard on timeline, don’t flinch. Own your ground. You’ve got this.

And no red. You’ll distract the entire room.

D.H.

I read the last line again. Then again.

And no red.

Last week, in that hushed, shadowy moment, he told me to wear red.

Now he was telling me not to.

Why?

Because it would distract the investors?

Or because it would distract him?

I stood outside the door, box of nerves rattling in my chest. I told myself I came here for clarification. For notes. To show initiative.

But that wasn’t the truth.

I needed to see him.

I knocked. “Come in,” came the low, familiar voice.

I stepped in.

Damien stood by the window, his tall frame framed against the skyline like a magazine cover. He was dressed for flight black slacks, a grey open-collar shirt, sleeves rolled, watch glinting under the soft afternoon sun.

His suitcase sat by the couch.

When he turned, our eyes met his gaze unreadable, calculating, as always. But then, softer around the edges.

“Clara,” he said. “Wasn’t expecting you.”

I stepped further in. “I read your email.”

“And?”

“You told me not to wear red.”

His mouth twitched. “You caught that.”

“I catch a lot of things.”

He walked around the desk, each step slow, intentional. He stopped just close enough that I had to steady my breath.

“Then you already know I trust you with this pitch,” he said.

“I wish you were staying.”

“Wishing doesn’t change anything,” he replied, voice quieter. “But it’s not weakness. It’s honest.”

I swallowed. “Why me, Damien? Really.”

For once, he didn’t dodge. Didn’t smirk. Just looked at me like I was the only person in his world.

“Because you don’t perform for attention,” he said. “You speak to be understood. That’s rare. And it’s exactly what MajorsTech needs.”

My chest tightened. Heat rose in my face.

He reached behind his desk and held out a slim black box. “Here. Don’t open it until after.”

I took it carefully, fingertips brushing his. “What is it?”

“Call it incentive.”

Our eyes locked.

His voice dropped. “You don’t need anyone in that room but yourself. Make them believe it.”

I turned to go. Emotion swelled in my throat. I didn’t want to say goodbye.

“Clara,” he said again.

I turned.

His footsteps were silent.

Then his hand reached out, gently brushing a loose strand of hair from my cheek.

He leaned in.

And placed a soft, lingering kiss at the edge of my mouth. Not fully on my lips. Not platonic either.

It wasn’t just affection.

It was a message.

A pause.

An if.

And then, as if nothing had happened, he stepped back, business as usual.

“Safe travels,” I murmured.

He gave a curt nod.

And that was it.

Later That Night

The black box sat on my counter.

Unopened.

I had touched it. Turned it in my hand. Tried to guess.

But I couldn’t open it. Not yet.

That kiss if I could call it that still echoed on my skin. I could feel it when I closed my eyes. Taste it when I bit my lip. Remember it when I stared at the ceiling in silence.

Damien Holt was a contradiction. Tough. Silent. Strategic.

And somehow, the man who made my heart stammer with one look.

I pulled my laptop toward me and began reviewing my slides again.

If he trusted me… I had to prove he was right.

Not just to him.

But to myself.