chapter 32.

THEA

There should be a rule about facing your boss after maybe sleeping with him while maybe being drunk and definitely being an emotional catastrophe.

Like a grace period. A trauma leave. An “I begged you to touch me and now I have to look you in the eye” buffer.

But no.

Here I am.

Click-clacking down the corridor of polished shame with a venti coffee and phone in one hand, a resignation letter in the other, and my dignity somewhere on Ezra’s floor, probably folded neatly next to my missing underwear.

I should’ve called in sick. Or dead. Or flown to Peru and started a new life as a potato farmer. Anything but this.

But nooo, I’m mature. I’m composed. I’m That Girl—the one who can handle anything, even the horrifying possibility that she threw herself at her boss and liked it.

This is fine.

Everything is fine.

Except I’ve reapplied my lipstick four times, changed my outfit twice, and my palms are so sweaty I’m one minor slip from tossing this coffee all over my white blouse and giving everyone in this building a wet t-shirt show.

Breathe, Thea.

You are a professional. A boss. A queen. You are not going to fall apart just because your hormones staged a coup and dragged your pride down with them.

I’m doing this. I’m walking into that office and demanding answers.

Demanding clarity.

Demanding the ability to look at Ezra Harrington without remembering what his hands felt like on my thighs.

And submitting my resignation letter before getting sacked of course.

I round the corner, psyching myself up like I’m marching into battle.

And then I freeze.

Because Nora walks out of his office, tablet in hand.

Can you see that? That's my confidence evaporating.

And when her perfectly mascaraed eyes land on me, her expression does not say “good morning, colleague.” It says, “you dirty little homewrecker.”

God. Did she know?

Why am I even asking when I could feel cameras flashing when he was kissing me.

Her gaze slides from my face to my blouse, then to the coffee in my hand like she’s mentally deducting points from my existence.

And then—just because the universe loves making me suffer—her lips curve into the world’s tightest, most passive-aggressive smile.

“Morning,” she says sweetly. Like poison in a champagne flute.

I nod, smiling tightly as I feel sweat roll down the side of my face. “Nora.”

“You want to see him right?” She asks hesitantly, pointing to his door with her tablet.

I gulp and nod.

Her eyes wander to the resignation letter I'm gripping too tight before moving back to my face.

“Are you okay?”

No I'm not. I've been running on coffee for the past twenty six hours because my pussy aches. “Of course yes.”

“Alright then.” She nods and steps away from the door.

I whisk past her, my hand on the knob before I turn back to her.

“Nora.” I call, “I'm sorry.”

Her brows lift, just barely, as if she didn’t expect me to say it. Maybe she thought I’d pretend not to notice her scowl or pretend not to know why it was there. But I know. Of course I do.

She told me weeks ago. That she liked Ezra. And I—I went and wrecked that with this charade, didn’t I?

Nora exhales, her shoulders dropping. She forces a smile, one that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I know,” she says with a light chuckle. “I guess I’m just… going to wait for another CEO to be transferred. I want to experience the cliché CEO and secretary relationship.”

It pulls a sad laugh out of me. She’s trying. We’re both trying. Trying to keep this civil, trying to hold ourselves together, trying not to spiral in the same damn building where everything keeps falling apart.

I chuckle awkwardly, fingers tightening around my phone and coffee like they're the only anchors I have.

“It’s fake though,” I say. And the lie tastes bitter as soon as it’s out. “He just… kissed me so they’d believe it.”

Nora’s eyes narrow, searching my face for something—truth maybe, or cracks in it.

“You sure this is fake?”

I swallow hard and shrug. “Maybe we’re just good at acting.”

But even as I say it, I know it’s not true. There’s a lot Nora doesn’t know. A lot I don’t know either. Like why my heart races every time I hear his voice. Why I can still feel his hand on the small of my back. Why I can’t tell if I regret it or if I just wish it hadn’t ended.

I feel… giddy. Like a teenager with a hopeless crush, waiting for a text that may never come. It’s pathetic. I’m a grown woman. A mother. A managing director. And yet here I am—on the verge of blushing just because he might be behind that door.

“You should go,” Nora says, her voice gentler now. No more scowls. Just quiet understanding and a little bit of amusement.

I nod. “I’m sorry,” I whisper again.

She doesn’t reply this time.

I turn back to the door, my fingers brushing the knob. I’m just about to twist it when it’s yanked open from the inside.

I stagger forward, off-balance—physically and emotionally—and fall straight into a firm chest, my phone, coffee, and letter, clattering to the floor.

Oh, fantastic.

Just what I needed.

My humiliation, delivered with a side of cologne and muscle.

His arms come around me instantly, instinctively, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he catches me all the time. Like he expects to.

My heart stutters against my ribs, traitorous and loud. And for a second, I just… stay there.

Frozen.

Held.

My fingers curl into the fabric of his suit jacket before I can stop them, and my nose brushes his collarbone, catching his familiar scent.

His voice rumbles low, close to my ear. “Thea.”

Just my name. But it hits me like a lightning bolt to the spine.

I snap back, straightening like I’ve been burned. “Sorry—I, uh, the door—”

He doesn’t move away.

Neither do I.

For one endless moment, we just… stare.

And I hate that I don’t know what I see in his eyes. Concern? Guilt? Something else entirely? He looks at me like I’m something delicate he doesn’t quite know how to hold. And that’s terrifying. Because I don’t know how to be delicate.

I’m all sharp edges and brittle bones right now. I’m coffee and cortisol and a hundred repressed emotions wrapped in one expensive blouse.

I clear my throat, letting my frustration turn into anger and something more. “Can I come in?”

His lips twitch. “You’re already in.”