Chapter 10

Ugh that conference room again. same stupid long table like it’s supposed to mean something. binders stacked like walls, spreadsheets nobody’s actually reading anymore (but we all pretend, right?), empty cups leaving rings like stains of time we’ll never get back, blueprints rolled up and ignored in the corner. like props. the fan overhead rattling like it might fall any second and nobody cares, just blending into Vincent’s drone. his voice… numbers, margins, percentages—like if he just repeats them long enough reality will shift.

I sat halfway down like always, not too close to the head (don’t want that spotlight, not yet) but not so far that I look irrelevant. pen in my hand like armor but honestly… I wasn’t writing. doodles everywhere. stupid little flowers, swirls that don’t connect, like a map to nowhere. pretending notes but no. my father eats this stuff up, loves the sound of his own questions, loves the control. I hate it. can’t breathe in there half the time.

Dom though. across from me. all posture and angles. like a textbook picture of “responsible man at meeting” — jaw tight, eyes low, scribbling sharp little notes like he’s carving commandments. never a wasted motion. but it’s a lie, I can see it. he’s too still. like he’s hiding the storm under it.

and maybe it’s sick but I wanted to poke at it. so I pulled out my phone, slid it under the table (been doing that since high school, easy muscle memory). thumb hesitating only a second—then I typed it, fast before I could overthink: you look like you’d rather be doing something else with that mouth.

the way he froze. oh my god. he didn’t even try to hide it—well, he tried, but not enough. flipped the phone, eyes flashing up at me like a spark through a crack. it was just a second but I felt it, heat like being caught doing something dirty but also thrilling. then the water—he drank too fast, coughing, and Vincent actually noticed. “you okay, Dom?” and Dom, smooth, “fine.” but his voice was tighter, raspier, like he wasn’t fine at all.

and I almost lost it right there. had to bite my lip to keep the grin down.

the meeting dragged like a funeral after that. Vincent droning on about supply timelines, then labor scheduling (like anyone at that table gave a shit, half of them were already thinking about lunch). Dom though, different. clipped answers, short. avoiding me. I knew I’d gotten to him.

when it ended, everyone scattered. relief in their faces like kids leaving class early. I lingered, shuffling my papers slow like maybe I had something important to finish. but I didn’t. neither did Dom—he was packing up, precise, like folding origami instead of stuffing papers.

I headed to the copy room, invoices in hand, machine humming alive when I pressed it. that stupid flickering fluorescent buzzing like an interrogation light. then the door closed. not just closed—clicked shut. deliberate.

I turned.

Dom.

portfolio gone, like he’d thrown it somewhere. hands loose, but no, not loose. dangerous. two slow steps forward and I swear my throat went dry.

“you think that was funny?” His voice, lower than before, calm-but-not.

I leaned against the counter, tried for casual, heart hammering but whatever. “I thought it made things more… interesting.”

his jaw ticked. “you have no idea what you’re playing at.”

I lied: “sure I do.” my hip pressed harder into the counter just to anchor myself.

he was closer then, so close I could smell the cedar, sawdust, heat—like construction sites had clung to him. he said, “your father trusts me. don’t make me regret that.”

and me, reckless, whispered back, “why? afraid you’ll lose control?”

his eyes—something flickered, raw, like I’d ripped a seam open. his hand almost touched me, stopped just short. my body screamed yes but his hand dropped like I burned him.

“get your copies done.” just like that. cold.

then gone.

I laughed to myself after but it wasn’t funny. my heart was still thundering. he’d cracked, even for a second. I knew it.

Angela at the desk saw me later and said, “you look like you just got told off.” and I just smiled, “something like that.” she raised a brow but didn’t push. thank god.

but it didn’t end there.

in the supply closet I heard footsteps. didn’t need to turn. I knew.

“you’re not even trying to stay out of trouble,” he said from the doorway.

I turned slow with a ream of paper on my hip. “where’s the fun in that?”

he stared too long, then walked away.

coward. or maybe hero. I don’t know anymore.

five o’clock came, office emptying, Vincent gone (of course). I wandered past Dom’s office. couldn’t help it. he was typing, face lit sharp from the screen glow, serious as ever.

“you need something?” didn’t even look up.

“maybe I just like the view,” I said.

his fingers stilled. then moved again. “you should go home.”

I walked in anyway, shut the door, the click loud in the quiet. “and if I don’t?”

he looked up at me then, finally, and I swear the air shifted. “then we’re going to have a problem.”

I smiled slow. “good. I like problems.”

he clenched his jaw. didn’t move. didn’t speak. went back to typing like nothing had happened.

“go home, Izzy.”

but the room still hummed after he said it.

that night in bed I replayed it all—every glance, every not-touch. he wanted. I knew it. he stopped himself, sure, but not because he didn’t feel it.

and the thing is—his restraint just makes me hungrier.

I don’t want him calm. I want him broken open.

and I’ll get there. I swear I’ll get there.