51

THEA

The second worst decision I’ve ever made in my life?

Staying after Mr. Dominic retired. The man left and took every ounce of peace with him. I should’ve packed my bags and vanished like a ghost the moment I heard the farewell cake had gotten sliced.

But no. I stayed.

Like a fool.

And now I’ve got a six-foot-something vampire CEO with unresolved rage issues and an apparent addiction to calling me sugar plum breathing down my neck—figuratively, and literally.

I’ve been avoiding Ezra like the plague.

No, scratch that. I am the plague. He’s the poor bastard trying to catch me, and I’m ducking behind doors, fake-smiling through meetings, and doing Olympic-level speed walks across the office whenever I sense his cologne approaching.

The man smells like sin and secrets—and unfortunately, a little bit like safety too, which is just rude.

And unfair.

Because how the hell do you levitate toward someone while also actively trying to delete them from your atmosphere?

It’s not every day someone drops the “your soul is mine” speech on you like some gothic Nicholas Sparks hero from hell. And sure, some of the stuff he said did sound kind of sweet… like, if I were still sixteen and eating popcorn in my unicorn pajamas, I’d be swooning.

But I’m not.

I’m a full-grown woman with a son, a mortgage, and exactly zero time for fated nonsense which is why I now know how to kill a vampire.

Somebody say ‘praise God.’

Well, through G****e of course.

And he'll be my lab rat if he gets too close to me.

I sigh.

Not having someone to tell the sudden problem of my life is driving me crazy.

I'm halfway to my office's door when my phone pings with a text. And I don't even need to check to know it's him.

+123 45X XXXX: You can’t run from me forever, sugarplum.

I stop mid-step and squint at the screen like it personally insulted my lineage.

I should block him. I want to block him. But my thumb hovers like it’s emotionally attached to his contact. Traitorous digit.

Sugarplum.

The man is unwell.

And somehow I’m the one catching feelings in between my sanity spirals.

The other night? He showed up at my house. Uninvited. At 10:47 p.m. With that same maddeningly calm look like he was dropping by for tea, not planning to turn my emotional stability into roadkill.

I didn’t open the door.

Not because I wasn’t tempted. Oh no. Every nerve in my body screamed like a fire drill. But I stayed planted on the floor, back pressed to the wall, clutching a decorative pillow like a weapon while whispering, “Go away, go away, go away,” like it was a spell.

Now he’s back. Like a leech. Texting like nothing happened.

I inhale a shaky breath and look up, praying no one in the hallway sees me looking like I just got emotionally slapped as I dip my phone into my breast pocket, my grip on the envelope tightening. Then, I turn the knob and step into my office.

Today, I’m supposed to work with Nathan Elowen. We’re finalizing the Q3 Strategic Expansion Alignment Plan.

Nathan is already waiting at my office.

God, he’s just… so nice. The type of guy who offers you gum and remembers your coffee order without making it weird. He listens when you speak. Like, actually listens. Like, nods and everything.

Which of course means Ezra now sees him as a threat.

Because why wouldn’t he?

It’s not like Nathan has done anything except exist and not be a walking red flag in Gucci loafers or custom Armani suits. But Ezra’s insecure ass probably mistook kindness for a confession of undying love.

Yup, I still have the card.

It’s honestly kind of impressive, the way his mind does acrobatics.

I walk into my office, adjusting my blazers and pretending I didn’t just have a whole telepathic breakdown five minutes ago.

Nathan smiles. “Hey, Thea. I made a rough draft of the plan. Thought we could go through it together?”

See? Polite. Professional. Normal.

I smile back, grateful for the emotional beige he brings into my stormy technicolor chaos.

“Perfect,” I say, taking a seat. “Let’s align away.”

Nathan and I talk for a solid hour in my office—actual adult conversation about the Q3 Strategic Expansion Alignment Plan. Which basically translates to: Let’s not set the contract on fire this quarter. He’s calm, focused, even cracks a mild joke about productivity graphs looking like sad rollercoasters.

I laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because laughing feels easier than thinking about the man I’ve been dodging like he’s contagious.

Once we wrap up and Nathan gathers his files, I walk him to the elevator like the proper cordial executive I pretend to be. He thanks me—because of course he does—and steps in with that same soft smile he'd given me when we danced that night.

Harmless. Normal. Refreshingly boring.

I turn around, heels clicking softly against the floor as I head back to my office, already planning to grab my bag and dash to go pick up Finn before the mom-guilt swallows me whole.

But the second I turn the corner, I see him.

Ezra.

Standing outside my office like a damn sad painting. His brows are tight, jaw clenched. There’s a storm brewing behind those usually smug eyes—torment?

I'm not sure…

Maybe that’s the word. The only emotion I’ve seen on his face that isn’t calm, smug superiority or that bone-deep desperation he reserves for me alone, apparently.

Well, crap.

I straighten my spine, flip the switch in my brain that powers my internal snark machine, and go full DEFCON-1.

“What? You haunting my hallway now?” I ask, breezing past him like I haven’t spent the past couple of days lowkey fantasizing about kissing him and then slapping him or driving a stake through where his heart is supposed to be.

He turns slowly, eyes tracking me like I’m a ghost he’s trying not to lose again. “I needed to see you.”

“Oh, right,” I snort. “Because unannounced nightly visits and passive-aggressive texts are the new flowers and chocolate.”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink.

“Thea, see… I can feel you,” he says calmly as he walks closer. “Everywhere. Even when you’re trying to avoid me like the goddamn plague. I just need to know if you can feel me too. I want to confirm something.”

Feel me?

I inhale shakily.

Because—yes.

Yes, I do. I feel him. All the time. Since that night from the gala. Like a static hum under my skin that won’t go away. Like an echo in my ribcage.

But instead, I say, “Nope. Can’t feel anything. Must be an early-onset emotional frostbite.”

He exhales slowly, like he knew I’d say that but hoped I wouldn’t.

I march toward my desk and grab my bag like it’s a weapon. “I need to pick up Finn.”

He doesn’t move.

“Don’t follow me,” I add without looking back. “Seriously. Don’t. I’m not in the mood for any more tortured billionaire antics today.”