chapter 13

THEA

The click of heels echoes off the bathroom walls and I freeze.

Voices filter in just before the door clicks open and shut. 

“... thing she did with his uncle?” one of them says, and I swear the air leaves my lungs.

“Harrington blood always attracts the same kind of woman.” Another woman replies with a chuckle.

They laugh.

And I don't even need someone to tell me that they are talking about me.

Fuck Ezra.

My pulse slams against my ears.

Mr Dominic.

They’re talking about him. Ezra’s uncle. My former boss.

And me.

My mouth goes dry. My jaw tightens. I can barely breathe through the rage threading its way up my throat. I ball my fists against my knees, praying for them to leave.

I hear the sound of water hitting the sink before it stops.

Then—

“This lip gloss makes the red pop out, right?” The second woman’s voice is breezy.

The first woman hums. “Red lipstick suits you so well.”

I almost hissed.

A minute later, the door opens before clicking shut.

Silence.

But I wait a little longer.

And when I hear no signs of people being on the other side, I spare the champagne flute one last glance and slip out of the stall, walking straight to the sink like I'm on autopilot.

Their perfume still hangs in the air like a fog I can’t escape. 

I don’t even glance at the mirror.

Don’t want to see the expression on my face.

Hot water gushes from the tap and I shove my hands beneath it.

Scrub.

And scrub.

And scrub.

The soap smells like lavender, but it feels like acid. I watch the bubbles foam over my skin, pink where my skin has turned raw. But I can’t stop.

I won’t stop.

This is how I cope. This is how I keep from screaming. Scrub the words out before they get under my skin. Scrub everything out. 

Thea Carlisle. The woman who sleeps her way to the top.

That’s what they see.

That’s all they see.

No one saw the nights I broke into pieces to hold my family together. The mornings I dressed like war was a boardroom and I had to fight for every breath, every seat at the table. The fucking battles I fought just to keep a career, a child, a sense of self.

They never see the cost. Just the headlines.

Power. Proximity.

That’s all it takes to rewrite your worth.

The scalding water sears my skin and I don’t care.

I keep scrubbing until my fingers feel numb. Until my hands tremble. Until the soap no longer clings to the shame that’s trying to wrap itself around my spine.

That's when I finally feel clean.

When I’m done, my hands sting. My eyes burn. My chest feels numb.

I’m tired.

The weekend starts tomorrow. I’ve made it through another week without crashing. That counts for something, right?

But I need to go back to H&V so I can enjoy my weekend in peace. 

I just want to clear my desk, tie up whatever’s left hanging, and disappear for two days. No calls. No fake smiles. No whispered accusations behind bathroom doors or elevators.

So I straighten my spine and smooth down my dress before slipping out of the bathroom, through the crowd and outside like I’m invisible.

All the while, I keep my head high, ignoring the stares, ignoring the hush, ignoring the flash of the camera. 

When I reach the hotel's door, I collect my car keys from the attendee with a polite nod.

Then I slide behind the wheel, shut the door, and finally—finally—breathe.

The engine hums to life.

I rev out of the parking lot and drive back to Harrington & Vale in silence, leaving everything behind.

The building is quieter than usual when I walk in.

Some people stayed behind though, probably for the same reason I’m here.

To finish what’s unfinished.

I head straight for my office, heels clicking against the tiled floor. The space greets me with the kind of calm I wish I could feel in my chest, nothing except the scent of my lingering perfume in the air. 

I move around the desk and sit, gathering folders as I draw my laptop closer and descend into chaos. 

When I’m done, I check the time. Almost midnight.

Weekend, here I come.

I lock my office and start walking down the hallway toward the elevators.

The corridor stretches longer than usual, lit by that dim after-hours glow.

When I press the elevator button, I’m met with a pause.

I shift on my feet, a sigh slipping through my lips as I wait for the elevator.

Then—

Ding.

The doors slide open.

Ezra.

I exhale a shuddering breath.

Of course it’s him.

Of all people.

Of all moments.

He’s standing inside, one hand holding a cup, the other holding his phone. He lifts his head, his eyes clashing against mine.

And for a moment, neither of us says a word.

His gaze flicks down, then back up. Calm and unreadable.

“Going down?” he asks, his voice low.

My throat tightens.

I don’t answer.

I just step in.

And the doors slide shut behind me.

We’re on the same floor. Our offices are just a few doors apart. But somehow, this is the first time I’ve seen him outside of meetings, outside of boardrooms, outside of him barging into my office like he owns the walls.

Now, he’s just standing there, back leaning against the elevator wall—he has his private elevator—sipping from a sleek black mug like he’s got all the time in the world.

Like the rumors don’t touch him.

I feel them clinging to my skin.

But he? He wears detachment like cologne.

I shift and lean a little on one heel before saying, “You shouldn't have smirked when your eyes met mine that time.”

He blinks and I think he almost looks innocent, different from ‘my boss’. “Why's that?”

“You only doused the burning rumours with fuel.”

“Ohh.” He says before drinking from the mug again.

Who the hell drinks coffee this close to midnight.

“And you’re not going to say anything?”

He takes another sip. The faintest smirk curves his mouth, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“People talk,” he says simply. “Let them. That’s their nature.”

That should’ve been dismissive. Cold.

But something in the way he says it makes the hairs on my neck stand.

That’s their nature.

Not our.

Not mine.

Theirs.

As if he’s something… else.

I narrow my eyes. “You didn’t deny it.”

He tilts his head slightly, as if studying me. “Would it have mattered if I did?”

I stare at him, my heart pounding. “They said I slept my way from uncle to nephew like some… some pawnny slut.”

There's a beat of silence.

His eyes drop to my mouth, lingering on my red painted lips then, they rise again slowly. I hold myself back from squirming.

“Did you use another perf?” He asks instead.

I blink. “Excuse me?”

His lips twitch. “Your perfume. It’s… different. You should stick to your old one. It compliments your natural scent well.”

A beat.

That’s what he’s going with?

Not the rumors. Not the fact that people are tearing my name apart.

But my perfume?

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I snap, my voice sharper than I intended.

Something flickers behind his eyes. A shift. A flash of… red?

No. I must be imagining it.

The light? Stress? God, maybe I am crashing.

And then—

He moves.

One second, he's leaning back like nothing touches him.

The next, he's right here.

Like the space between us never existed.

Like he just erased it.

His breath is hot against my skin.

I freeze, my heart thumping loudly in my chest.

He dips his head, just enough for his lips to hover above the crook of my neck.

Not touching.

Barely grazing.

But close enough to burn.

He inhales. “You. You are what's wrong with me.” he murmurs, voice so low it’s almost indecent.

His nose presses against my skin. “I can smell the difference.”

My skin prickles. Every nerve alive. I should push him away. I should.

But I’m standing there like my body has forgotten how to move.

His next breath is a whisper against my throat. “Vanilla and spice. But the new one’s got too much bite. The old one… suits you better.”

I swallow hard. “You’re out of line.”

I feel his lips curve against my skin. “Am I?”

“Yes,” I breathe. “And you’re too close.”

He doesn’t move back. Instead , he presses closer. “Then tell me to stop.”

I hate that my body betrays me, heat pooling low in my belly while my mind screams danger.

He smells like sin and power. Like smoke and something else. 

I grip my bag tighter, willing my resolve.

This must be a… mistake.

No one wants a 29 year old divorcée filled with scars and baggage.

So I breathe, “Back. Off.”

He lingers before leaning back, his eyes holding mine for one… two… three seconds too long.

Then he pulls back. Smooth. Controlled. Like nothing happened.

As if he didn’t just steal the breath from my lungs.

As if he didn’t just crawl under my skin and leave something behind.

I'm going to burn under hot water tonight.

He lifts his mug again and takes another sip. “Enjoy your weekend, Miss Carlisle.”

The elevator doors slide open.

He walks out first.

I don’t move until the scent of him is gone.

And even then, my knees still tremble.