19

THEA

There’s something about the way Nora's been acting lately. I recognize it too well.

Jealousy.

It's subtle—barely there—but I feel it in the shift of her tone, the way her compliments sound like carefully wrapped grenades, the long glances that feel like judgment instead of curiosity. And honestly? I don’t know what to do with it.

Because I still want to believe everything is fine. That I’m fine. That she’s fine. That whatever’s between Ezra and I is fine. 

And if there’s one thing I’m getting good at—it’s forcing my mind to believe whatever I need to survive.

So I continue.

Like always.

When Nora pushed the dating site my way, I told myself I’d scroll, maybe laugh a little, then delete the app like I do with all impulsive decisions. But then I met Lyra.

Sweet, funny Lyra with a sharp wit and a sunflower heart.

We clicked fast. Too fast, maybe. But I didn’t stop it.

I love-bombed her. She love-bombed me. It was mutual emotional arson, and now we’re practically best friends.

The first real friend I’ve made in years.

And maybe that’s why I cleared my desk in record time today—so I could text her about my chaos and laugh like I don’t have war wounds hiding under my skin.

I smile at the screen as a message comes in.

Lyra: Okay but if Ezra calls you sugarplum again, I will personally fly down and pour coffee on his devil suit.”

I bite back a laugh, thumbs flying as I type back:

Me: Not the devil suit! That’s his everyday uniform. I'm starting to believe he has only one suit now because I can't tell everything apart.

Another message bubbles up instantly.

Lyra: Typical. Also, are you free tonight? Movie marathon and wine. No billionaires allowed.

God, I need that.

I’m halfway through typing "Yes please" when the door to my office clicks open.

I freeze.

Only one person enters rooms like he owns them and pays rent on your air supply.

Ezra.

Of course.

“Hold.” I hurriedly type to Lyra before pressing the power button of my phone. Then, I place it against the table.

I interlock my fingers on my table, my eyes on the door.

The knob turns next and he steps in.

.

.

EZRA

She doesn't flinch when I walk in.

I like that.

Most people—men, women, board members, even clients with egos larger than their offshore accounts—tend to shift when I enter a room. Like they feel it. The weight. The bite.

But not Thea.

She just folds her fingers together like she’s bracing herself for a sermon, eyes cool and posture sharp.

“How may I help you, boss?”

The title sounds like a snarl on her tongue.

I should answer. I walked in here with an agenda. I had a purpose. But instead, I ask,

“What were you doing?”

Her expression doesn’t shift, but I see it in the way she tilts her head—like I’m a mosquito circling her wine glass.

“Nothing to worry about,” she says, voice smooth. “You have another task to send my way?”

Amusing.

Her mouth says obedience. Her tone says bite me.

And for some reason, that makes me want to smile.

I don’t. Of course. I’m not made for smiles. We were taught young that power isn’t held in teeth—it’s held in restraint. And I'm trying to remind myself that because I've been finding myself wanting to smile more these days.

And—

Her phone dings. A message. She almost ignores it. Almost. Then, it dings again.

She holds up a finger. “One moment.”

She doesn’t wait for my approval and just leans in and types something quickly, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

And I freeze.

Because I’ve never seen her smile.

Not like that.

She’s chuckled at meetings, at me, dry, sarcastic sounds with no real mirth behind them. She’s sneered during presentations, and glared at anyone who dared to suggest she couldn’t handle it. But this?

This is soft. Unfiltered. Warm.

Beautiful.

Fuck.

I look away, scowling at the floor-to-ceiling window like it personally offended me. Get a grip, Ezra.

The audacity.

I tell myself I’m not jealous.

Not of whatever message pulled that smile out of her like a well-kept secret. Not of whoever gets to text her midday and make her lips curve like that.

I’m not.

Really.

Jealousy is for men with less power.

Less discipline.

Less control.

Men like her ex husband.

And yet… I shrug the thought off like a bad jacket and shove my hands into my pockets before I do something drastic—like snatch her phone and read it.

She finishes whatever she’s typing, tucks the phone aside like it holds no power over her, and looks up at me with that same unwavering stare.

“You can say whatever you want to say now.”

I don’t ease into it. I drop the bomb like it’s just another Tuesday in hell.

“I need you to come with me to an event.”

She blinks. Once. Twice. Her mouth parts and closes before she finally finds her voice. “Why?”

I don’t even flinch. “Girlfriend duties.”

She stills and I feel the shift in her, like a brewing storm behind a polite smile.

“Girlfriend duties,” she repeats, like the words taste bad.

“Yes.”

“I see,” she says coolly and turns her attention to the laptop on her table. She draws it closer. “Well, since this doesn’t fall under my professional job description and it's still work hours, I’ll get back to you later, boss.”

“No.”

She stops and looks at me like I’ve just grown fangs.

Which, to be fair, I might as well have. With the way her scent hits me now—sweet, vanilla-tinged, utterly distracting—I wouldn’t be surprised if I bit something.

I grind my molars and ignore the way her pulse is thudding like music I can’t unhear.

“The event’s tonight,” I say. “We’re leaving now. You’ll need time to get ready.”

Her nostrils flare. “So this is a last-minute favor disguised as a demand?”

“Yes.”

She glares at me but I counter it with a smile.

The truth? I didn’t even know about The Avalon Summit—a pompous little gathering of America’s top CEOs and power players—until this morning when I was clearing out my spam folder. Buried between penis enlargement scams and newsletters I don’t remember subscribing to.

But it’s crucial. Networking. Power plays. The elite shaking hands with the elite.

I need to be there.

And I want her with me.

Because if I show up alone, they’ll assume I’m still the same cold-blooded, sexless CEO with nothing to offer but silent transfers. 

But if I show up with Thea—poised, gorgeous, unbothered—

They’ll assume I’m winning.

Her gaze lingers on me one last time before she stands with a huff. She grabs her car key and bag before storming out of her office, whisking past me.

We reach the parking lot in near-silent tension. She walks fast, heels stabbing into the concrete as she heads for her car.

I clear my throat. “No,” I say. “We’re taking mine.”

She whips around, nose flaring. “What’ll happen to mine?”

I shrug, giving the driver a silent command.“It’ll be towed.”

Her eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“You can’t tow my car.”

“I can. And I will.”

She mutters something about “psychopaths with delusions of control” and stalks toward my car instead.

I grin.

God, she’s angry.

And God help me—I’ve never wanted her more.