Rowan’s POV
The moment she turned around, time buckled.
Those eyes.
Green—bright, saturated, alive.
They hit me from across the room with a force that had nothing to do with proximity, and something behind my sternum shifted like a deadbolt being thrown.
The rest of her registered in fragments: full lips parted in surprise, the elegant architecture of her neck, dark hair falling past her shoulders, and that dress—emerald, fitted with a precision that made it impossible to look anywhere else.
“Well, hello there.” Dorian’s voice cut through my paralysis, smooth and easy and laced with the appreciation of a man who noticed beautiful women the way other people noticed weather.
My jaw clenched.
The sight of my best friend openly admiring my new assistant sent something hot and irrational surging through my chest.
“You must be the new assistant who argued with the boss,” he continued, deploying the smile that had been collecting phone numbers since freshman orientation.
I watched her cheeks flush—a warm pink that started at the base of her throat and climbed—and something primitive stirred in response.
“Dorian Kingsley, VP and lifelong best friend of the grumpy statue beside me.” He extended his hand, and when their fingers touched, the irrational surge intensified.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I didn’t get territorial over women.
I’d spent my adult life surgically removing that instinct from my operating system.
“And this intimidating monument is Rowan Sinclair.
Your boss.”
Her gaze shifted to mine, and the floor dropped out from under me.
A jolt of recognition, so acute it felt physical.
Those green eyes widened, her lips parting on a sharp intake of breath, and for one disorienting heartbeat I was somewhere else entirely.
A hallway.
Dim light.
A woman I’d never seen again.
The impression vanished as fast as it came, leaving behind nothing but unease and a pulse rate that had no business being this elevated in my own office.
“Miss Vane.” My voice came out rougher than I intended.
“Mr.
Sinclair.” She collected herself with a speed that impressed me despite everything.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
She extended her hand, and I took it.
The contact detonated.
Her hand was warm, fitting against my palm with a specificity that felt like a lock finding its key.
Electricity arced up my wrist, and I heard the faint hitch in her breathing that told me she’d felt it too.
Her perfume reached me—light, floral, devastatingly familiar—and a memory stirred in the basement of my mind, trying to surface through three years of concrete.
I was holding her hand too long.
I knew I was holding her hand too long.
I released her with a control that cost me more than any negotiation I’d ever conducted. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
“We’ll be in my office.” I strode toward my doors before my face betrayed anything else.
“Bring in that chamomile tea in fifteen minutes.”
The doors closed behind me, and I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
My hands found the edge of my desk and gripped.
Dorian followed, shut the door, and dropped into the chair across from me, smirk already fully deployed.
“Don’t,” I warned, loosening my tie.
The office felt too warm.
“I didn’t say a word.”
“Your face said seventeen.” I opened my laptop, aiming for normalcy and achieving nothing close to it.
“Fine, I’ll use actual words.” He leaned back, crossing one ankle over his knee.
“She’s gorgeous, Rowan.
And you know it.”
I fixed him with a glare that had ended board meetings.
“She’s an employee.”
“An employee who has you acting like a possessive teenager.” He was enjoying this far too much.
“I’ve known you since college.
I’ve never seen you look at another man the way you looked at me when I shook her hand.
If that look had been a weapon, I’d be filing for disability.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“Am I?” One eyebrow, perfectly calibrated.
“What happened to your famous ‘no fraternization with employees’ policy?
Feeling a bit inconvenient today?”
“Nothing has changed.” I met his eyes without flinching.
“Miss Vane is my executive assistant.
Nothing more.”
“If you say so.” His smile widened.
“Though I wouldn’t blame you for bending that rule.
She’s stunning, smart enough to impress Evangeline—who is harder to impress than the supreme court—and brave enough to hang up on you.
That’s a rare combination.”
Before I could formulate a response caustic enough to end the conversation, a commotion erupted outside—a voice, shrill and insistent, cutting through the mahogany.
“I don’t care if he’s in a meeting!
Move aside this instant!”
Ivetta.
Christ.
“Miss, please—” Hadley’s voice, calm and firm, a stark counterpoint to the shrieking.
“Do you know who I am?
I’m Ivetta Ashcroft!
My father is the financial director of this company!”
I was on my feet and moving before conscious thought caught up with instinct.
Ivetta Ashcroft—Aaron’s daughter—had been a recurring migraine since her father joined the company.
She seemed to believe that proximity to power was the same as possessing it.
“You’re just a secretary.” Her voice dripped venom. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
“You’ll regret getting in my way.
I promise you that.”
Something snapped.
Not loudly—more like the final thread of a patience I’d been fraying for months.
No one threatened my staff.
Not in my building.
Not on my floor.
I yanked the door open, and in my haste, I collided with Hadley.
She’d been reaching for the handle.
The impact was solid, and she stumbled backward with a gasp.
My hands moved on pure reflex, one catching her waist, the other finding the small of her back, pulling her into me to prevent the fall.
Everything stopped.
Her body pressed flush against mine, every curve fitting against the harder planes of my frame with a precision that felt designed rather than accidental.
Her hands landed flat on my chest, palms warm, and the heat of them seared through the cotton.
Her perfume engulfed me—vanilla and something darker—and the memory stirred again, harder this time, pushing through the concrete with a violence that made my pulse stutter.
I knew this scent.
I knew the way this body felt against mine.
I knew—
Her green eyes looked up at me, wide, startled, lips parted on a breath I felt against my throat.
Something primal and ungovernable surged through me—desire, recognition, possessiveness—and my body responded with a directness that bypassed every executive function I possessed, hardening against her with an immediacy that was as undeniable as it was catastrophic.
Her eyes widened further.
A soft gasp escaped her, and the blush that followed told me she’d felt exactly what was pressing against her.
“Mr.
Sinclair.” Her whisper was barely a breath.
Ivetta’s indignant huff shattered the moment like a rock through glass.
I didn’t let go.
I should have.
Instead I turned my head—still holding her against me—and found Ivetta three feet away, her contoured face twisted with fury, her eyes tracking the placement of my hands on Hadley’s waist with the focused malice of someone cataloguing evidence for future use.
“Rowan, I need to speak with you right now,” she demanded.
Dorian appeared in the doorway behind me, arms crossed, wearing the expression of a man who’d just been handed front-row tickets to a show he hadn’t known he wanted.
I was trapped.
Ivetta on one side, radiating entitlement.
Dorian behind me, radiating amusement and the promise of relentless future commentary.
And the woman in my arms, who had shattered my carefully constructed self-control in a matter of minutes.
And worst of all, I was still rock-hard against her, with no way to hide it if I let her go.