Hadley’s POV
My hands shook around the coffee mug as I settled into my chair, legs still unsteady from the morning’s collision, the residual ache between my thighs a persistent, maddening reminder of exactly how unfinished this war between us still was.
Minutes later, Rowan’s email landed in my inbox—crisp, professional, ruthlessly efficient, every line item numbered, every deadline underlined, as if the man who’d just torn my underwear off with his bare hands had been swapped out for a machine that only processed board agendas.
I threw myself into the work with something bordering on desperation, grateful for the mindless repetition of formatting and cross-referencing, anything that gave my body permission to stop replaying the exact pressure of his hands.
By the time other employees filtered in, every document for tomorrow’s meeting was organized to the letter, and I had almost convinced myself I looked like a woman who’d had a perfectly ordinary morning.
Evangeline breezed through the entrance with a man’s arm linked through hers, her eyebrows climbing when she took me in.
“Hadley, what happened to you?
You look like you wrestled your alarm clock and lost.
Good morning, honey.”
“Morning, Evangeline.
Mr.
Sinclair asked me in early to prep for tomorrow’s meeting.”
“That demanding man better not make this your new normal.”
“He won’t.” I forced a smile and willed the heat in my cheeks to subside.
“It actually worked out—I finished everything ahead of schedule.”
The man beside her studied me with an openly appreciative grin that was more charming than predatory.
He was classically handsome—sun-warmed skin, impressive height, warm brown eyes, slightly tousled dark hair that complemented well-groomed stubble.
His tailored suit and designer glasses completed the picture of a man who’d figured out exactly how put-together he needed to look to make effort seem effortless.
“Evangeline, my boss mentioned the new assistant was attractive, but he seriously undersold it.” His warmth was genuine.
“You’re going to turn this whole office upside down.”
“Orson’s right, and the chaos has already started,” Evangeline said.
“Orson, meet Hadley.
Hadley, this is Orson, Dorian’s right hand.
You two will be working together constantly, but don’t worry—he’s professional, despite appearances.”
“Hadley, the pleasure is mine.
Consider me your office guardian angel.” Orson’s handshake was firm and sincere.
We spent the morning syncing our workflow systems—calendar overlaps, communication protocols, the invisible infrastructure that kept the executive floor running without visible seams—while Rowan stayed conspicuously behind his closed office door, the silence behind it loaded with implications I refused to examine.
By eleven the procedures were airtight.
Orson suggested lunch.
As we gathered our things, that familiar whistle cut through the office from the corridor.
“Is this performance scheduled daily, Dorian?”
“Wasn’t planned, but honestly, Hadley, what did you expect wearing that dress?
Your boss is in serious trouble.” He grinned wider.
“Is he in?”
Before I could answer, Rowan’s office door wrenched open and his voice cut through the air.
“Dorian.
I’ve already warned you about this.”
His gaze landed on me, fire blazing in those dark eyes as they traveled the length of my body with undisguised hunger.
“Sir, perhaps some calming chamomile tea would help?”
His eyes narrowed.
A low growl escaped his throat.
Dorian looked between us, thoroughly confused.
“Since when do you drink chamomile tea, Rowan?”
“Since my assistant decided to test every limit of my self-control.” He never broke eye contact with me.
I pressed my palm to my chest, all mock innocence.
“I would never deliberately provoke you, Mr.
Sinclair.
Dorian, coffee?”
“Absolutely, Hadley.
Thank you.”
I walked to the break room with theatrical slowness, aware of two sets of eyes tracking every step.
I prepared both drinks and arranged them on the silver tray.
Freya intercepted me at the door.
“Hadley, sweetheart, let me take those.
Serving drinks isn’t your job.”
“I genuinely don’t mind, Freya.
Let me deliver this one personally.”
I knocked, entered, crossed the room, set Dorian’s coffee down with a crisp napkin, then circled to Rowan’s side.
I leaned in to place his teacup directly into his hands, letting my neckline align with his line of sight.
His eyes dropped, flared, then rose to meet mine with a promise that needed no words.
With Dorian in the room, he was powerless to retaliate.
I let the napkin slip from my fingers.
It drifted to the floor like a feather—a small, innocuous rectangle of paper that meant nothing and everything.
I bent slowly to retrieve it, positioning myself with the careful calculation of a woman who’d been underestimated one too many times, taking considerably longer than necessary, giving him an unobstructed view of exactly what his morning’s destruction had left me without.
The sound he made—low, strangled, barely human—confirmed that the message had been received in full.
I straightened.
Dorian was watching the entire exchange with open, delighted amusement.
Before I could speak, Rowan was on his feet.
He took the napkin from my hand, his grip brushing mine, and put his face inches from mine.
“The next time you present that beautiful ass to me so blatantly, I’m going to bend you over this desk, forget completely that you work for me, and take you so thoroughly you’ll beg me to stop.
Are we clear?”
My gaze dropped involuntarily.
The evidence of his words was visible—hard, straining against the expensive fabric of his trousers—and the sight of it hit my bloodstream like a shot of adrenaline, flooding my core with a heat so sudden and so fierce that my breath fractured audibly. Get faster updates on novelping.com.
This man was lethal.
Beautiful and brilliant and completely, devastatingly dangerous to everything I’d built.
I was aroused again, my body betraying me with zero regard for professional dignity.
“Did you understand me clearly, Hadley?” His voice dropped even lower.
“Y-yes, sir.”
From across the desk, Dorian’s laughter erupted—helpless, delighted, the laugh of a man who’d just witnessed something he’d be dining out on for years.
“You two should just sleep together and end this torture.
The sexual tension radiating off you is going to set off the fire suppression system.”
We both turned to glare at him, which only fed his amusement.
He collected his coffee and headed for the door.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
When our eyes met again, Rowan squeezed his eyes shut and dragged both hands down his face—the gesture I was learning meant his control was fraying at both ends.
I took advantage of the distraction and made my escape.
At noon Orson appeared at my desk, all easy enthusiasm.
“Ready for lunch?
I’m starving.”
“Absolutely.
Let me just confirm my boss doesn’t need anything.” I called Rowan’s extension rather than risk entering his office again.
He approved my lunch break in a voice still tight with unresolved tension, and something in the clipped edges of it told me this conversation was far from finished.
Orson took me to a charming restaurant near the office—bright, unpretentious, excellent food.
He was easy company: married to his childhood sweetheart, no children yet, genuinely kind without the undercurrent of agenda that seemed to permeate every other interaction on the twenty-eighth floor.
When I told him I was a single mother, he responded with respect rather than pity.
His wife, he insisted, would adore me.
A real friendship—uncomplicated, no power dynamics, no burning subtext—felt like oxygen after the morning I’d had.
On the way back, we stopped at the bakery across the street, where I bought a slice of chocolate cake for the afternoon.
A small indulgence.
A reward for surviving the morning.
By one o’clock, I was seated at my desk with professional composure restored, though the absence of underwear beneath my dress remained a constant, low-frequency reminder that this day was far from over.
I’d intended to buy a replacement pair during lunch, but Orson’s presence had made the errand impossible without an explanation I wasn’t prepared to give.
Every shift against the chair reminded me of the lace Rowan had torn away and the promise he’d made beside his desk.
I smoothed my dress, crossed my ankles beneath the desk, and waited for whatever came next.