hapter 12
May 30, 2025
That… did not just happen. One brush of Damon’s fingers and I’m short-circuiting like a teenager finding her crush’s hoodie in her locker. Embarrassing.
I shook my head as I stepped into the elevator, still half-stuck on the warmth of his hand grazing mine.
“Snap out of it,” I muttered, hitting the button for floor seventeen. “He’s literally the last man on Earth you should be thinking about. All he knows how to do is watch your downfall.”
But the universe loves a sick joke. Because when the elevator doors slid open, guess who was waiting?
Bianca.
In full designer warfare. Hair lacquered into place, lips too glossy to trust. She turned at the sound, eyes landing on me—and for a split second, she froze. I saw it: recognition, panic. The territorial kind.
“Celene,” she said, smile tight as a corset. “Didn’t realize you had access to this floor.”
I stepped in calmly, chin high. “Funny. I was thinking the same about you.”
Her lips twitched. “You know,” she said, flipping her hair like it came with a PhD, “he really doesn’t like surprises.”
I raised a brow. “Who?”
She didn’t blink. “Rhys.” Then, a pause. “He likes soft things. Grace. Predictability. Not chaos in heels.”
I smiled—slow, surgical. “And yet, here I am.”
Her jaw ticked. She tried again.
“I made him lunch today,” she said brightly. “From scratch. Roasted sea bass with saffron and lemon foam. His favorite. I plated it myself.”
I blinked. “Foam?”
She beamed. “It’s a texture play.”
“It’s a choice,” I said.
“He said it reminded him of our trip to Sicily.” There it was—the threat, disguised in breadcrumbs and olive oil. I stepped in closer, just enough to make her retreat half an inch. Barely anything. But enough.
“Then love him all you want, Bianca,” I said.
She blinked.
“But let’s see what he really eats.”
Ding. The doors opened. I walked out first. Didn’t even glance back. But I could feel her seething in four-inch Louboutins.
By the time I reached my office, I already had the whole play written in my head. I picked up the phone.
“Jade,” I said to my assistant, “I want something delivered. Hot. High-end. Not catered. I want steam coming off it when I open the lid. You’ve got twenty minutes.”
She got it. She always does.
Seventeen minutes later, a knock. And then him.
Rhys stepped into my office like the power in the room didn’t faze him. Like he belonged. Blazer off, shirt sleeves rolled, hair slightly disheveled—like maybe he’d run a hand through it while trying not to think about me. His eyes scanned the space, then landed on me. And then the takeout box in my hand.
He raised a brow. “Dinner already?”
I stood slowly, walked over, and held the box out to him.
“For you,” I said.
He studied it like it might explode. “Should I be suspicious?”
I shrugged. “It’s not poisoned.”
“I didn’t ask if it was.”
“Then don’t ask questions.”
He took the box, and our fingers brushed again. This time, I didn’t flinch. Neither did he. But something shifted in his eyes. A flicker of… something.
“What’s the occasion?” he asked.
I stepped just slightly closer. Lowered my voice.
“For doing well,” I said. “And for not being boring.”
He stared at me, trying not to react. Like he could hear the flirt behind the calm but hadn’t decided what to do with it yet.
“Thanks,” he said finally. Then he left.
I waited two beats before walking to the hallway window. From four floors up, the view was perfect. Reception was quiet. And there it was—Bianca’s glass container. Saffron foam, untouched. Still sitting neatly at the edge of Rhys’s desk, like a sad little trophy no one wanted.
I didn’t laugh. Didn’t gloat. I just smiled.
Because Rhys wasn’t eating sea bass tonight.
He was eating my choice.
And Bianca? She was going to choke on hers.
