Chapter 11 (Part 02)

"So," I asked, breathless from the dancing and the heat and the intoxicating feeling of being desired, turning my head toward his, "do you always save girls in line or just the desperate-looking ones?"

He laughed, low and warm near my ear, the sound vibrating through his chest against my back. "Only the ones with eyes like yours."

I rolled my eyes, though I was fighting another smile. "Oh, you're smooth."

"I try. But I mean it." His voice carried a note of sincerity that surprised me, cutting through the practiced charm to something more genuine underneath.

"Of course you do," I said, but the sarcasm was gentle, more playful than dismissive. "So what do you do, Zayn?"

"Marketing," he replied easily, the answer flowing without hesitation. "Freelance. Mostly high-end fashion and luxury brands. The kind of stuff you either can't afford or don't care about."

I hummed in acknowledgment, imagining him in meetings with people who used words like "synergy" and "brand activation" without irony. "Sounds glamorous."

"It's bullshit. But it pays." His honesty was refreshing, cutting through the pretense that seemed to coat everything in this city like expensive perfume. "And you? Let me guess. Something structured. Spreadsheet-heavy. You've got those 'I color-code my life' vibes."

The accuracy of his assessment made me laugh despite myself. "Corporate admin."

He whistled low, impressed and amused in equal measure. "Knew it. Buttoned-up and brilliant."

"Emphasis on buttoned-up."

"Not tonight." His hands tightened slightly on my waist, as if to emphasize the point. "Tonight you're something else entirely."

I bit my lip, tasting lip gloss and possibility.

His fingers slipped up slightly again, tracing the line of my ribs with the kind of reverent attention that made me feel like a work of art being appreciated by someone who understood beauty. "You really don't know how gorgeous you are, do you?"

I turned just enough to meet his eyes—deep brown, warm with interest and something that might have been genuine affection. In the shifting lights of the club, his face was all sharp angles and soft shadows, handsome in a way that belonged on magazine covers.

"I think," I said slowly, choosing my words carefully, "I've forgotten a few things about myself lately."

"Then I hope tonight helps you remember."

I didn't reply immediately, letting the weight of his words settle between us like a promise.

I didn't need to respond with words.

Instead, I let myself melt into the moment completely, surrendering to the music and his touch and the heady feeling of being seen—really seen—as something more than efficient and reliable and perpetually available for whatever crisis needed solving.

His hands moved with a kind of reverence that made my breath catch, not aggressive or demanding like so many men I'd encountered, but present in a way that made me feel valued. Like he wanted me to know I was seen, wanted, desired not just for what I could do but for who I was beneath the professional polish.

And for once, I let myself feel it without analysis or skepticism.

I let my hips sway in sync with the music and his guidance, let my head rest back against his chest while my eyes fluttered shut in surrender. The dress clung to my curves with every motion, every roll of my hips and shift of my shoulders, making me acutely aware of my own body in a way I'd forgotten was possible.

A song melted into another, slower and dirtier, with a bass line that seemed designed to make people do things they'd regret in the morning.

Zayn turned me with gentle pressure, and I faced him fully, his hands sliding along my sides with practiced ease, just shy of scandal but close enough to make my pulse race. In the dim light, his face was all shadows and angles, mysterious and compelling.

"God," he murmured, voice thick with something that might have been awe, "you're dangerous."

I laughed, surprised by how much I liked the description. Dangerous. When was the last time anyone had called me dangerous? "You don't know the half of it."

He grinned, pulling me closer again until our bodies were flush from shoulder to knee, eliminating every inch of space between us. My skin burned under his touch, not in discomfort or fear but in the sweet ache of remembered sensation.

In memory.

Of what it felt like to be a woman and nothing else—not an assistant, not a problem-solver, not a perfectly calibrated machine designed to make someone else's life easier.

Just me.

Just Emery, in a black dress, being touched by someone who wanted nothing from me except this moment.

No meetings scheduled for tomorrow morning. No pressure to be perfect. No pretending that I didn't have needs and wants and desires that had nothing to do with quarterly reports and coffee preferences.

The music pounded through my chest, syncing with my heartbeat until I couldn't tell where the rhythm ended and I began.

And then…

It happened.

A shift in the atmosphere that had nothing to do with the DJ switching tracks.

Not in the music, which continued its hypnotic pulse around us.

Not in Zayn's grip, which remained steady and sure on my waist.

In me.

Like a gust of wind brushing against the back of my neck, raising goosebumps that had nothing to do with temperature. The sudden, inexplicable feeling of being watched—not casually, not in passing, but with the kind of focused intensity that made prey animals freeze in open fields.

Closely.

Deliberately.

I froze, the movement barely perceptible but enough that Zayn paused too, his head tilting in question.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," I said quickly, too quickly, my voice carrying a tremor I hoped he couldn't hear over the music. "Just—felt something."

The sensation crawled up my spine like ice water, making me hyperaware of every person in the room, every gaze that might be lingering too long. I turned slightly, letting my gaze sweep across the club with what I hoped looked like casual curiosity rather than the growing panic that was clawing at my chest.

And that's when I saw him.

Seated at a private table just beyond the dance floor, elevated slightly above the masses like a king observing his court, beneath the dim halo of an overhead light that seemed to spotlight him intentionally, sat Killian Vale.

My boss.

My untouchable, unreachable, perfectly controlled boss.

Black suit that probably cost more than my monthly rent, tailored to perfection and somehow managing to look effortless despite the obvious expense. No tie—unusual for him, almost shockingly casual. White shirt with the collar open just enough to reveal the hollow of his throat, making him look like sin wrapped in silk and delivered with a bow.

One hand rested casually against a glass of what looked like whiskey—untouched, the amber liquid catching the light like liquid gold.

The other draped along the back of the velvet booth with the kind of relaxed confidence that came from owning every room you entered.

But it wasn't his posture that stole the breath from my lungs like a physical blow.

It wasn't the way he commanded attention without trying, or how the expensive clothes seemed to be made specifically for his body.

It was his eyes.

Dark as midnight and twice as dangerous.

Icy despite the warmth of the club.

Locked on me with laser focus.

Unmoving.

Unblinking.

Watching like he had been for a while, like he'd been sitting there observing my every movement, cataloguing every touch, every smile, every moment of abandon I'd allowed myself.

My breath caught in my throat, trapped there like a bird in a cage.

His jaw was set in that familiar line I recognized from countless meetings, lips pressed together in that same unreadable expression I saw when he was displeased with a presentation or annoyed by incompetence. Only this time, there was something different beneath the controlled exterior.

Something sharp and primitive.

Possessive in a way that made no sense and every sense at once.

Almost… furious.

The realization hit me like cold water: Killian Vale was angry. Not the cool, professional displeasure I'd witnessed in boardrooms, but something hot and personal and dangerous.

I straightened unconsciously, muscle memory from month of being his assistant kicking in even here, even now, in this place that was supposed to be separate from everything he represented.

I felt Zayn's hands still at my waist, grounding me in the present moment—but my mind had already spiraled into a dozen panicked questions that tumbled over each other in rapid succession.

What was he doing here?

This wasn't his kind of place. Killian Vale belonged in exclusive restaurants with wine lists longer than most novels, in private clubs where membership required bloodlines and bank statements.

Why was he here?

Had he followed me? The thought made my stomach clench with a mixture of violation and something else I didn't want to examine too closely. Had he somehow discovered where I was going tonight and decided to… what? Check up on me? Make sure I wasn't embarrassing him by association?

And why was he looking at me like that—like I'd betrayed him by simply existing in a space that didn't revolve around his needs and his schedule and his perfectly ordered world?

His stare didn't falter as these questions crashed through my mind like waves against rocks. Didn't blink. Didn't shift to take in the scene around us or acknowledge the absurdity of finding his assistant grinding against a stranger on a dance floor.

He didn't look at Zayn, didn't seem to register that there was another person touching me, holding me, making me laugh in ways that had nothing to do with work or efficiency or the careful balance of professional relationships.

Didn't look at the other bodies moving between us, the crowd of beautiful people lost in their own moments of escape and indulgence.

He looked through all of it—through the lights and the music and the carefully constructed atmosphere of hedonistic pleasure—and saw only me.

And in that moment, I forgot about everything else.

I forgot about the music that had been my salvation just moments before. I forgot about the flirtation that had made me feel alive and desirable. I forgot about the warm hands on my body that had reminded me I was more than just a efficient machine designed to make someone else's life easier.

Because his eyes had found me across a crowded room full of strangers.

And there was no looking away.

Not from him.

Never from him.

The realization crashed over me like a wave I'd been fighting against for month: even here, in this place that was supposed to be mine, even surrounded by people who knew nothing about my professional life or the careful boundaries I maintained, even dressed as someone else entirely—I was still his.

His assistant.

His responsibility.

His to command and control and judge from a distance.

The spell Zayn had woven around me with his gentle hands and easy charm shattered like glass against concrete, leaving me exposed and vulnerable in ways I'd forgotten were possible.

Killian Vale had found me.

And nothing would ever be the same.