2: The Devil Himself

Olivia stared at Cyprus Blackwell as if the floor under her feet had vanished, leaving her suspended in midair with nothing to hold on to. Shell-shocked didn’t even begin to cover it.

Her mouth opened instinctively, muscle memory kicking in from years of interviews and boardroom meetings, but nothing came out. Not a sound. Not even a breath. Her throat felt locked, as if her body had decided that speaking in this moment was too dangerous to attempt.

Her heart slammed painfully against her ribs. Her luck had been disastrous lately. There was no other explanation for this relentless string of disasters. First the flight delay and now this, meeting Cyprus here.

Of all the cities. Of all the companies. Of all the men in the world.

What had she done to deserve this? Had she offended some cosmic power she hadn’t known existed? Did the universe simply hate her?

Her gaze remained fixed on him, and without warning, five years dissolved.

She remembered the heat of his hand gliding slowly down the bare length of her spine, sending delicious shivers through her body. She remembered his quiet laugh against her ear, the way his voice had wrapped itself around her name until it had sounded like something precious. Even now, she could almost smell the expensive cedar cologne that had clung to his skin that night, so vivid that for one terrifying moment, it seemed to fill the conference room instead of polished wood and fresh coffee.

The memories came too fast, colliding with one another until she could no longer tell where the past ended and the present began.

She hated that her body remembered him before her mind could remind it to hate him.

Cyprus leaned back slightly in his chair, his gaze sharpening as he studied her. His grey eyes, made even more piercing behind the thin frames of his glasses, swept over her face with unsettling thoroughness: taking in the stiff line of her shoulders, the faint pallor of her skin and the way her fingers curled involuntarily at her sides.

For one heart-stopping moment, Olivia was certain he knew. She braced herself for it, for his eyes to widen, for recognition to strike and for him to say her real name.

But it didn’t happen. Cyprus only tilted his head slightly and said, evenly, “You must be Livienne.”

Olivia couldn’t even bring herself to nod. She remained frozen, rooted to the spot, shock locking her joints.

Cyprus reclined further, settling into his chair like a man taking possession of a throne. One ankle rested casually over his knee. His fingers laced together as he waited. And waited.

The silence stretched oppressively , coiling itself around Olivia’s chest until it was hard to breathe. He was letting it grow uncomfortable on purpose, watching to see how long she would endure it. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and edged with arrogance that made her spine stiffen. “For the figure my company is paying,” he said mildly, “I expect a voice to match the face.” His gaze flicked briefly to her lips, then returned to her eyes. “Otherwise,” he continued, “we could have commissioned a very expensive statue. Surely not all models are quite this… vacant.”

The word sliced cleanly through her shock. Something sharp and cold snapped into place inside Olivia. Fear still burned in her chest and her pulse still raced, but indignation burned hotter, eclipsing everything else. Her jaw clenched, muscles tightening as anger flared suddenly.

Across the table, Cyprus’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. “There it is,” he murmured. “A reaction at last.” His gaze dropped briefly to her clenched jaw. “Though,” he added coolly, “not the one I was hoping for.”

He straightened slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “Let me be blunt,” he said, his tone sharpening. “Your silence is wasting my time. And I bill my time in increments considerably larger than your day rate.”

Olivia raised a brow at those words.

“So,” Cyprus went on, utterly unbothered, “you may want to find your voice quickly. Or I’ll find a model who can.”

The threat was delivered with such casual cruelty it was unmistakable. From the way he didn't raise his voice, she could see he was used to being obeyed.

Her eyes flashed. “I was scheduled to meet a team of professionals,” she said sharply, her voice cutting through the room at last, “but I suppose I’ll have to settle for you.”

The words came out clipped and Cyprus’s smile widened, slow and dangerous. There was unmistakable interest there now. “Take a seat,” he said calmly. “This isn’t a casting call.”

Her back stiffened, but Olivia crossed the room and took the chair opposite him with rigid composure. She folded her hands in her lap, nails biting lightly into her palms, grounding herself.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Cyprus reached for a document in front of him and began flipping through it, the soft rustle of paper the only sound in the room. He didn’t look at her, not even once.

The dismissal was almost worse than his earlier insults.

Olivia was abruptly grateful she was sitting. The force of his presence in the room made her knees tremble despite herself. She forced her breathing to remain steady and her expression carefully neutral even as her thoughts raced wildly.

What was he doing here? The last she had known, Cyprus Blackwell was Vice President of Defendwise Ventures, a cutting edge tech firm that was worlds away from luxury jewelry and perfume. She had worked under his team.

So how was he here? Why was he here? And why of all days was it now, at the exact time her introductory meeting with Saint Liman’s team had been scheduled?

Her head throbbed as the implications tangled themselves into a knot of dread in her stomach. She wanted to bang her forehead against the table. The urge was tempting. She resisted it with an effort, aware that it would look very strange and very unprofessional.

She stared pointedly at her hands folded tightly in her lap. She tried to focus on the smooth lines of Flora’s coat, the polished surface of the conference table, anything that wasn’t him, but her eyes betrayed her. Discreetly, she kept sneaking quick glances at him, forcing herself to look away when she feared her gaze lingered too long.

If it was even possible, he had grown more devastatingly handsome since the last time she had seen him. His dark hair was shorter and styled sharply to accentuate the clean angles of his face. He was clean-shaven now, but the scar across his brow - a thin, jagged mark she swore hadn’t been there before - gave him a dangerous air. He looked less like the meticulous Vice President of Defendwise Ventures she remembered and more like a figure straight out of some mafia thriller.

Olivia felt the familiar, traitorous pull of desire, a clenching in her chest she hadn’t felt in years that was threatening to undo her at the knees. She scolded herself harshly.

You hate him, remember? You hate him. Every inch of you, every shred of your memory must hate him.

And yet, her gaze betrayed her, flicking again to the curve of his jaw,and the way he held himself with the ease of someone who knew he owned every room he walked into. Her eyes strayed dangerously close to the pen he idly twirled between his fingers, and her mind vividly flickered with images of what those hands had done to her that she would have given anything to erase. The softness of his fingers, the heat of his gaze, the memory of the night that had changed everything… She scolded herself again, her pulse spiking as she willed herself to focus and remain professional.

Just as she was summoning every ounce of self-control, the door to the conference room swung open with a suddenness that made her jump. The sound of footsteps interrupted the tension that had built in the room.

Victor Brand stepped through, the familiar grin on his face instantly putting Olivia at ease. Victor was the man she had been coordinating with during the start and finish of her contract through video calls and emails. Relief flared in her chest. Thank God someone who could take charge was here.

“Good morning, Livienne—” Victor began brightly, waving a hand in greeting. But his words died halfway as his eyes took in the figure at the head of the table. His smile faltered, then vanished entirely, leaving only a pale expression.

Cyprus lifted his gaze from the document he had been skimming, regarding Victor with an unwelcome coldness. The friendliness and familiarity drained from Victor’s face, replaced by the sudden realization that he had just stepped into a storm.

“Sir! I… I didn’t know you’d be here,” Victor stammered, his voice shaking slightly. “I…apologies for my lateness…”

Cyprus rose from his chair without a hint of haste, his stature commanding. Olivia’s chest constricted as she took in the sheer presence of him standing there. Even in casual motion, he radiated authority. She felt a sharp pang of sympathy for Victor. Poor man. He had walked into a lion’s den unarmed, and Cyprus was more than ready to pounce.

“I’m glad I chose today to see how you were managing this important project,” Cyprus said, his voice controlled. “If I had not, I might not have noticed how flippantly you’re conducting yourself, like a naive, foolish new employee rather than someone with ten years’ experience behind him.”

Victor swallowed hard. “I—I—”

“Let me be clear,” Cyprus said, his tone now scathing. “I would have expected a man of your experience to handle such a critical project with far more care. Not to arrive late and stagger in like a sloth.”

Olivia’s eyes widened at the sharp cruelty in his words. She could see Victor blanch, his shoulders stiffening under the weight of Cyprus’s gaze. The man’s usual confidence and charm that made him a respected director had melted into panic under Cyprus’s scrutiny.

As anger flared in her chest, Olivia couldn’t help herself. She spoke sharply, the indignation in her tone surprising even her. “Mr. Blackwell, don’t speak to him like that. He’s not deserving of insults just because he arrived a few minutes late.”

Cyprus tilted his head, his gaze dropping briefly to her left hand which was bare. "I assume, given your... maternal instincts toward Victor here, that you're a mother yourself?" He gestured vaguely toward her hand. "No ring, but that hardly means anything these days, does it? Children born to unknown fathers seem to be something of a trend in our modern workplace."

Olivia felt the blood drain from her face.

Cyprus watched her, his expression unreadable. "You've gone rather pale. Did I strike a nerve?"