The silence in the elevator was thick enough to choke on.
Emery gripped her tote bag tightly, watching the numbers climb toward the executive floor. Her stomach churned, not from nerves—but from anticipation. Frustration. And something deeper she didn't want to name yet.
He kissed her.
He kissed her like he needed her. Like he had permission. Like he'd already imagined every inch of her bare.
And now?
Now she was walking back into a battlefield with no idea what side she was on.
Nicholas didn't speak to her that morning.
He issued orders through Olivia. Communicated by email. Acted like nothing had happened.
Which was, of course, infuriating.
By noon, she snapped.
Emery slammed the file onto his desk without knocking. "You can't ignore me all day just because you regret touching me."
Nicholas didn't even look up. "I'm not ignoring you. I'm managing you."
"Oh, is that what this is?" she shot back. "Because it feels a lot like emotional constipation."
That earned a glance. Sharp. Icy. But there was heat under it.
"You're used to having power, Emery," he said coolly. "And you're good at wielding it. But I own the battlefield."
"You don't own me."
"No," he murmured. "That's the problem."
She stepped closer. "Then fix it."
He stood. Slowly. Deliberately. And rounded the desk.
"I can't fix it," he said, voice low, his body inches from hers. "Because if I touch you again, Emery, I'm not stopping at a kiss."
Her breath caught.
He leaned in—mouth at her ear.
"And I don't think you want me to."
Before she could respond, the door burst open.
Marla, the HR director, froze mid-step.
Emery and Nicholas flew apart like magnets suddenly reversed.
"Sorry," Marla said too brightly, eyes narrowing just slightly. "Didn't realize I was interrupting... strategy."
Nicholas's voice was smooth steel. "What do you need, Marla?"
"Just a reminder," she said, holding out a thick folder, "about employee conduct. There's been chatter."
She handed it to Emery. Their fingers touched.
"Careful," Marla said with a tight smile. "Glass ceilings crack for all sorts of reasons."
The rest of the day passed in heatless blur.
Emery couldn't concentrate. She couldn't breathe around him anymore. And she couldn't decide if that made her want to kiss him again—or destroy him.
It wasn't just attraction. That would be too easy.
It was pull. Gravity. A sense that this wasn't just a bad idea—it was a necessary one.
So when 6:01 p.m. rolled around and her inbox went quiet, she didn't leave.
She waited.
Nicholas didn't call her in. Didn't message.
So she stood.
Walked to his door.
Opened it.
He was alone. Jacket off. Tie loose again. The man always looked like he belonged in a painting—and a crime scene.
"You said something earlier," she said, stepping inside and closing the door. "About not stopping."
He looked up. His eyes were shadowed, stormy. Hungry.
"I remember."
"I want to know if you meant it."
He stood without a word.
Walked to her.
Paused inches from her mouth.
"Say the word," he said. "And I'll forget every policy I ever wrote."
Her heartbeat thundered. Her skin was already aching.
"Yes."
It wasn't slow this time. It was fire.
He kissed her like a man claiming something that already belonged to him.
Her blouse hit the floor. His hands on her skin—hot, certain, reverent.
They crashed into the desk. His mouth on her throat, his voice low and ragged in her ear.
"You don't get to run from this."
She gasped. "I'm not running."
Her nails left red lines on his back. His belt hit the floor with a metallic clink. She opened to him, arched for him, burned under him.
They didn't make love.
They devoured.
And when it was over, when their bodies stilled and the room quieted again...
He kissed her temple like it hurt.
Then whispered, "This was a mistake."
And she whispered back, "No. It was inevitable."