Rowan’s POV
Ivetta Ashcroft’s voice split the air like broken glass.
“What exactly do you think you’re doing, you shameless little climber?
Take your filthy hands off him right now!”
I didn’t release Hadley.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t so much as shift my grip on her waist.
Instead, I let the accusation break against me like a wave against a seawall, then lowered my mouth to my assistant’s ear—close enough that my lips grazed the shell of it, close enough that her perfume hit me again, vanilla and jasmine, devastating at this range.
“Stay exactly where you are.” My voice came out as a low command, barely above a murmur, and I felt her sharp intake of breath against my chest.
She could feel what was pressed against her.
I knew she could.
I didn’t care.
My gaze found Ivetta—rigid, polished, incandescent with a fury she’d been rehearsing for years—and went cold.
“Apologize to Miss Vane.
Now.”
“Are you serious?” Ivetta’s eyes flared, nostrils pinching with the particular outrage of someone who’s never been denied anything worth having.
“I’m teaching this nobody some manners.
Look at her—throwing herself at you like some desperate little gold digger.
She had the nerve to tell me I needed an appointment.
An appointment!
You need to explain who I am and fire this insolent girl immediately.”
“Apologize,” I repeated, each syllable dropping in temperature, “or face the consequences.”
She stared at me with wounded theatrical pride, but I could see the calculation churning behind it—rage and strategy warring behind eyes that had never learned the difference between wanting something and deserving it.
Given the opportunity, she would claw Hadley apart without hesitation.
The certainty of that made something protective and savage tighten in my chest.
I pulled Hadley closer against me—deliberately, visibly—and watched Ivetta’s composure crack along its fault lines.
“No apology?
Perfect.” I didn’t raise my voice.
I didn’t need to.
“Dorian, escort Miss Ashcroft to the elevators.
Make sure she reaches the lobby.”
Dorian’s expression ignited with barely contained satisfaction.
He’d despised Ivetta since their first interaction—her casual cruelty, her entitlement, her reflexive condescension toward anyone she deemed beneath her, which was everyone.
The opportunity to escort her out was a gift he intended to unwrap slowly.
“Absolutely.” He offered Ivetta an exaggerated bow.
“After you, Miss Ashcroft.
I’ll personally ensure you find the street exit without any unfortunate detours.”
I stepped backward into my office with Hadley still pressed against me, deliberately avoiding Dorian’s delighted gaze, and pulled the door shut.
The lock turned with a decisive click.
For several seconds, I simply stood there—one arm still banded around her waist, her back against my chest, the scent of her filling every inhale, my own breathing uneven enough to embarrass me.
Her heartbeat pulsed against my forearm, fast and hard, matching the rhythm hammering inside my own chest.
Something unnamed and ungovernable demanded that I not release her—that I hold on, that I bury my face in her hair, that I breathe her in until whatever this was either made sense or burned itself out. Enjoying the story? Read on at novelping dot com.
I gave in.
Just for a moment.
I let my face drop to the crown of her head and breathed—deep, greedy, a breath that tasted like surrender—and the scent of her settled into my bloodstream with the permanence of something that wasn’t leaving.
Then I forced my arms open.
Let her go.
She didn’t pull away immediately.
For a fraction of a second, she stayed—pressed against my chest, warm and solid and real—and I understood, with a clarity that hit me like cold water, that the current running between us was not one-directional.
She felt it too.
Then she stepped away, squared her shoulders, and turned to face me with composure so seamless it was almost insulting.
“Mr.
Sinclair, I must apologize.
My instructions were explicit—no visitors were to enter your office without authorization, with the exception of Mr.
Kingsley.
This woman bypassed Brenna entirely and attempted to force entry.”
Her voice was steady.
Professional.
Not a tremor, not a crack, not a single visible indication that three seconds ago she’d been pressed against a man who was unmistakably, desperately aroused.
The control it required was extraordinary, and it made me want to shatter it.
“You handled the situation perfectly, Miss Vane.
I expect these standards maintained without exception.
I don’t care if the president himself arrives unannounced—only you, Dorian, and Evangeline have unrestricted access to my office.” I walked to my desk, fighting for equilibrium, and reached for the phone.
“Grant, effective immediately, Ivetta Ashcroft is permanently banned from this building.
I don’t care what story she tells or what threats her father makes.
If that woman sets foot in this lobby again, you’ll be clearing out your desk within the hour.”
I disconnected, then dialed again.
Ashcroft answered with the oleaginous charm of a man who always knew when trouble was coming.
“Ashcroft, your daughter has been permanently barred from this building.
I will not tolerate her performances, her insults to my staff, or her delusion that your position entitles her to anything beyond a polite greeting from the receptionist.” His sputtering attempts at defense scraped against my patience like sandpaper.
“I don’t want to hear it.
Your daughter has no business here and never will.
Consider this your final warning.” I hung up before the urge to say something irrevocable got the better of me.
I turned back to Hadley.
She stood before my desk with flawless posture—spine straight, tablet in hand, expression unreadable.
I searched her face for evidence of what had just happened—the collision, the contact, the involuntary press of my body against hers—and found nothing but professional composure worn like armor.
Did anything rattle this woman?
A venomous socialite had created a public spectacle.
I’d pulled her against me with an intimacy that belonged nowhere near an office.
She’d felt the undeniable physical evidence of what her proximity did to me.
And through all of it, her composure had cracked exactly once—a widening of the eyes, a barely audible gasp—before she’d sealed it shut again.
Good.
She wasn’t as unaffected as she wanted me to believe.
“Please, sit down, Miss Vane.” She settled into the chair with the controlled grace of a woman measuring every movement.
“I apologize for subjecting you to that scene.
Ivetta Ashcroft can be…
difficult to manage.”
“No apology necessary, sir.
Managing challenging personalities is part of the position, and I understand not every interaction will be pleasant.”
“Excellent.
Your composure under pressure is invaluable.” I paused, letting the silence build, then drove straight through the professional boundary I had no business approaching.
“Should I also apologize for the way I held you?
And for my body’s rather obvious reaction to your proximity?”
The composure cracked.
Her eyes widened—genuine shock, not performative—and a blush climbed from her collarbone to her hairline, turning her cheeks a shade of pink that made something low in my stomach tighten.
I watched her gaze drop to my mouth for a fraction of a second before she caught herself and looked away, and the satisfaction that coursed through me was entirely inappropriate and entirely irresistible.
She recovered faster than I expected.
“Sir, I’m not sure what you’re referring to, but I assure you no apology is necessary.
I should be thanking you for preventing my fall.”
Smart.
Discreet.
And a complete lie, delivered with enough conviction to almost pass.
She knew exactly what I was referring to.
She’d felt it.
And we both knew she’d felt it.
I cleared my throat and forced myself back to business—or something resembling it.
“How are things progressing with Evangeline?”
“Exceptionally well.
The critical knowledge transfer is essentially complete.
It’s simply a matter of establishing our working rhythm, which I expect will be seamless.”
“I hope you’re right.
Where is Evangeline currently?”
“Handling matters in accounting.”
“Good.
When she returns, I’ll brief you both on my upcoming schedule.
You may return to your desk.”
“Yes, sir.”
I watched her rise, watched her walk to the door with that fluid, deliberate grace, watched the emerald dress move with her, and the moment she disappeared through the doorway, I dropped my head onto my desk with a thud that rattled the pen holder.
I was absolutely, completely, catastrophically screwed.
Maintaining professional boundaries with this woman was going to require every ounce of discipline I possessed—discipline I’d just demonstrated I didn’t actually have.
She was stunning.
She was brilliant.
She was infuriatingly composed.
And she set something on fire inside me that I hadn’t felt in three years—since a hallway, a masquerade, a woman whose scent I’d never been able to forget.
The coincidence bothered me in a way I couldn’t articulate.