The boardroom was made of glass, but secrets pulsed through its walls like blood.
Emery sat at the far end of the long, obsidian table. Her hands folded neatly over the printed quarterly briefings, though her fingers betrayed her—nails pressed hard into her palm, a small bloom of pain grounding her.
Nicholas sat two seats down, at the head of the table, pristine in navy. His posture was perfect, his expression unreadable. Only once had he glanced in her direction, and it had felt like a lightning bolt ripping through the room.
They hadn't spoken since the night in his penthouse.
The night he told her about Cassandra.
The night he touched her like he was afraid it would be the last time.
"There's been talk," said Eugene Roth, one of the more senior board members. "About blurred lines. Boundaries. And certain... optics."
Nicholas didn't flinch. "Is there a specific accusation?"
Eugene glanced pointedly down the table. Right. At. Emery.
"Just whispers. But if they get louder, they become headlines."
Emery kept her face neutral, but her stomach turned.
"Let me be clear," Nicholas said, folding his hands. "I don't indulge in company gossip. And I don't allow it to dictate my leadership."
"Be that as it may," Marla interjected from the opposite side of the room, "this is an HR matter now. The company must protect itself from any appearance of favoritism or impropriety."
"I've read the employee handbook, Marla," Emery said, voice calm. "There's no policy against personal relationships, provided they're disclosed."
A few eyebrows raised.
Nicholas looked at her.
She looked back.
And the whole room felt it.
A current. A pull. Something unsaid that had the weight of truth.
"Thank you, Miss Clarke," Eugene said tightly. "We'll be following up. Separately."
The moment the room emptied, Nicholas didn't move.
He stared at the table for a long beat before speaking.
"You shouldn't have defended me."
"I didn't," Emery said quietly. "I defended myself."
His jaw tightened. "This is exactly what I didn't want."
"Then maybe you shouldn't have kissed me. Or undressed me. Or made me feel like I mattered to you."
He stood suddenly, walking toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, jaw rigid.
"You do matter to me," he said. "That's the problem."
Later, she found herself back on the rooftop. Again.
It had become a kind of sanctuary. Above it all. Invisible.
The air was sharp with the threat of rain, clouds like bruises hanging over the skyline. She leaned against the railing, head bowed.
"Running away again?" came his voice from behind her.
She didn't turn.
"Just breathing."
Nicholas stepped beside her, close but not touching. He looked different under stormlight. Less godlike. More man.
"This thing between us," he said, "it's becoming dangerous."
"To what?" she whispered.
"To the company. To our reputations. To control."
She laughed bitterly. "Is that what you're scared of? Losing control?"
He didn't answer.
"Tell me something," she said after a long silence. "Would you give this up? Me? If the board demanded it?"
He turned then, finally facing her.
"Yes," he said. "If it meant protecting you. I would."
It broke something in her. And mended something else.
"I don't want to be your weakness," she whispered.
"You're not," he said, stepping closer. "You're my war."
And then he kissed her again. This time out in the open, under the threat of rain and consequence.
It wasn't careful.
It was defiant.
They made it back to his office barely breathing.
His mouth trailed heat down her throat. Her fingers tangled in his hair, his jacket hitting the floor before the door even clicked shut.
He laid her across his desk. Unbuttoned her blouse with reverent precision. Lowered himself between her legs with a look of worship and hunger.
And when she came, writhing beneath him, the name she moaned wasn't just lust—it was surrender.
"Nicholas."
Afterward, she lay on his chest, heart thudding.
And said the one thing she knew could ruin them both.
"I think I'm falling for you."
He didn't speak.
Didn't move.
But the arm around her tightened.
And he whispered, "I already did."
But downstairs, Marla was on the phone.
And Lucas Vale had just walked through the front doors.
With a smirk.
And a plan.