Chapter 5 The Morning After

Khalia

Coffee. Black. Double shot.

It was the only variable keeping my cognitive functions online. By 9:55 AM, the main boardroom of Salvador & Associates was humming with the presence of the BGC Municipal Development Board.

The city representatives were flipping through our printed portfolios, their chatter a background drone that failed to register in my brain.

My focus was fixed entirely on the presentation screen.

Or rather, the woman standing next to it.

Atasha looked flawless. She wore a structured, cream-colored blazer over a high-necked navy blue blouse, her dark hair neatly smoothed into a chic twist.

To the city officials, she was the picture of elite, poise landscape design. But I had a different set of data.

I knew that under that cream blazer, her collarbone bore a faint, reddish shadow from where my teeth had pressed into her skin at 7:45 PM last night.

"Ms. Salvador? If you could walk us through the structural reinforcement of the central promenade?" Director Santos asked, breaking my train of thought.

"Of course, Director," I said, my voice executing its standard professional cadence. I stood up, taking the laser pointer. My eyes accidentally brushed Atasha’s as I moved to the front of the room.

The air in the boardroom instantly thinned.

Atasha didn't look away. Her dark eyes held mine with a defiant intensity that made my fingers tighten around the plastic pointer.

Last night’s unspoken vulnerability was gone, replaced by a tense, hyper-aware electricity.

"As you can see in Section 3," I continued, pointing the red dot at the blueprint on the screen, "we have altered the northern retaining wall to utilize a stepped concrete reinforcement. This allows the urban canopy roots from Clemente Designs’ layout to expand laterally without compromising the main plaza’s foundation."

"A highly practical compromise," Atasha added smoothly, her voice a low velvet that sent an uninvited shiver straight down my spine. She stepped closer to the screen, her arm barely two inches away from mine. "By lowering the concrete grade by three hundred millimeters, we ensure the root density naturally manages the groundwater, preventing the flooding risks we discussed... previously."

When she said the word previously, her gaze dropped to my lips for a fraction of a second.

My heart hit my ribs like a hammer. My mind instantly flashed to her pinned against the concrete hotel wall, her breath ragged, her hands tearing at my hair.

The sheer, intoxicating whiplash of holding her in the dark last night versus analyzing concrete grades with her in a room full of government officials at 10:15 AM was blinding.

"Excellent," Director Santos beamed, entirely oblivious to the fact that the two lead designers were practically vibrating with unspoken tension.

"It seems the synergy between Salvador and Clemente is as seamless as advertised."

Synergy. If only he knew the actual terms of our contract.

Atasha

My skin was burning.

Every time Khalia spoke, her sharp, analytical voice resonated in my chest, waking up the exact places her hands had branded less than fourteen hours ago.

I kept my posture impossibly straight, terrified that if I relaxed for even a second, the heavy fatigue and the intoxicating memories would make me unravel right in front of the municipal board.

When the meeting finally adjourned at 11:30 AM, the room emptied out quickly, leaving only the project’s internal team.

I let out a long, silent breath, dropping my hands to the mahogany table to steady myself.

Khalia was already packing her tablet into her leather briefcase, her movements fast, systematic, and entirely dismissive.

She hadn't looked at me since the Director stood up.

"Holy hell, the tension in there was thick enough to cut with a drafting knife," a voice boomed from the doorway.

Bea stepped into the boardroom, carrying a stack of revised budget sheets.

As a senior project manager for the development board—and our lifelong friend—she had a permanent pass into our workspace.

She shut the door behind her and leaned against it, her eyes darting between Khalia and me with an alarmingly sharp focus.

"We were just being thorough, Bea," Khalia said coldly, zip-closing her briefcase. "A project of this scale requires absolute focus."

"Thorough? Khali, you looked like you were trying to dissect Atasha with your eyes," Bea said, walking over to the table. She dropped the papers and stepped directly into my space. "And Tasha, you’re sweating through a cream blazer in a room set to sixteen degrees Celsius. What is going on with you two?"

"Nothing, Bea. We’re just tired," I lied, stepping back to gather my blueprints.

But as I reached across the table, the loose neckline of my high-necked navy blouse shifted. The fabric draped down just enough to expose the side of my throat.

Bea’s eyes locked onto the spot. Her entire expression froze.

"Tasha," Bea murmured, her voice losing its playful edge. She reached out, her fingers catching the lapel of my blazer and pulling it back a fraction of an inch before I could slap her hand away. "What the hell is that on your collarbone?"

The boardroom went dead silent.

Visible against my pale skin was a dark, unmistakable bruise—curved perfectly to the shape of a mouth.

Bea looked at the mark. Then, she slowly turned her head and looked at Khalia.

Khalia was frozen. Her hand was wrapped around the handle of her briefcase, her knuckles turning completely white.

Her jaw line was tight, a telltale sign of absolute internal panic that only someone who had known her for ten years would recognize.

"You've got to be kidding me," Bea whispered, her eyes widening as she connected the dots. She looked at my bruise, then at Khalia’s rigid posture, then back to me.

"The radio silence for two years. The sudden 'professional synergy.' The absolute toxicity at dinner last night. You two are... you're sleeping together?"