Chapter Three

Elena

The seconds the door clicks shut behind Jennifer, the room feels like it shrinks to the size of a coffin.

His hand is still out. Same hand that dug bruises into my hips like he was trying to brand me. Same fingers that drew slow circles on my spine while I came apart against his mouth.

I can’t move. My lungs forget their job.

“Ms. Martinez?” Jennifer again, polite and confused, because I’m standing here like someone unplugged me.

He drops the handshake like it never existed. “We’ve met,” he says, voice flat enough to skate on. “Last night. Meridian bar.”

I wait for the floor to open up and swallow me. It doesn’t.

Jennifer lights up like he just told her we went to the same yoga class. “Oh, how funny! Small world. I’ll leave you to catch up.” She actually winks—winks—and then she’s gone.

Door shuts. Silence so loud my pulse is a drumline in my ears.

He doesn’t sit. He stalks to the window, hands jammed in his pockets, shoulders rigid under that stupidly perfect suit.

I open my mouth and the only thing that comes out is a cracked, “I didn’t know.”

He doesn’t turn around. “I said sit.”

My legs obey before my brain signs off. I drop into the chair, clutching my portfolio like it’s a life raft.

Minutes—hours?—crawl by. I count his breaths because I have nothing else to do.

Finally he faces me. The morning light is brutal; every line of his face looks carved from ice.

“Let me make this simple, Ms. Martinez.” Each word lands like a slap. “Last night was a mistake. It doesn’t get discussed, repeated, or referenced. Ever. Clear?”

I nod so hard my neck hurts.

“If one syllable leaves this room, I will bury you professionally. You’ll never place an ad in this city again. Understood?”

Something hot flares through the terror. “I’m not an idiot,” I snap, voice shaking but loud. “I don’t want this getting out either. You think I’m dying to tell people I fucked my maybe-boss in a hotel I can’t afford?”

His eyes narrow to slits. “Then we’re on the same page.”

“Crystal clear.”

He stares like he’s trying to decide whether to throw me out the window or just fire me into the sun. I stare back because I have literally nothing left to lose.

I hear myself say, “I’m good at my job.”

He blinks. Once.

“I’m really good,” I barrel on, the words tumbling out before the sane part of my brain can stop them. “I’ve tripled client budgets. I have a ninety-eight percent retention rate. That proposal on the table? It’ll make you money. A lot of it. Judge me for that, not for—” I gesture wildly between us, “—whatever the hell last night was.”

His jaw flexes so hard I’m waiting for a tooth to ping across the room.

“Without remembering what, exactly?” he asks, voice dangerously soft.

I stand up. Screw it.

“That I had your mouth between my legs twelve hours ago. That clear enough for you?”

The air conditioner kicks on. That’s the only sound.

He watches me for a long beat. Something unreadable flickers behind the ice—surprise, maybe. Or recognition.

Then he sits. Pulls my portfolio across the table like it personally offended him. “You’ve got ten minutes. Go.”

My hands are shaking so badly the first slide rattles when I open it, but once I start talking, the numbers take over. I know this stuff cold. I walk him through every insight, every risky idea, every dollar it’ll make him. My voice steadies. The room narrows to charts and strategy and the fact that I’m damn good at this.

When I finish, he doesn’t speak for so long I start mentally packing up my apartment.

“Your projections are aggressive,” he says finally.

“They’re right.”

“You want to gut half our current campaigns.”

“They’re trash and you know it.”

He flips another page, pen tapping once against the paper. “You’re aware this would mean reporting directly to me.”

I swallow. “I’m aware.”

Another eternity.

He closes the folder. “I’ll be in touch.”

Translation: get out.

I stack my things with clumsy fingers. At the door I stop, because apparently I have a death wish.

“I don’t regret it,” I say quietly. “The sex. I regret the timing. Not the rest.”

He doesn’t look up. “You should.”

I walk out before I can say anything else suicidal.

Jennifer tries to make small talk in the elevator. I nod in all the right places. The second I hit the sidewalk the tears start—ugly, hiccupping ones I don’t bother hiding. I find a bench in the little park across the street and let myself fall apart for exactly three minutes.

Because he’s lying.

I saw it when he shook my hand—felt it—like static jumping between us.

He doesn’t regret it either.

And that’s the part that’s going to destroy us both.