4

The sudden proximity brought that familiar, dangerous shift to the air. The heavy, gold-lit office suddenly felt incredibly small, thick with a simmering tension that had nothing to do with contracts and everything to do with the fact that we were now standing mere feet apart in the quiet of the night.

Sean looked at me, his gaze dropping to my lips for a split second before snapping back to my eyes. 

He swallowed hard, his throat working as he searched his memory. Silence stretched between us, heavy and laced with an unexpected, electric friction.

"Exactly," I said softly, my voice dripping with sweet, sarcastic victory. "You don’t know a single thing about me."

"Was it... Miller? Um, Potter, Robinson? Something British?"

He was so deadpan, so thoroughly lost, that the sheer absurdity of his guesses broke through my annoyance. I burst out laughing again.

And then, a miracle happened. Sean smiled. A genuine, unrestrained chuckle broke from his chest, crinkling the corners of his dark eyes. It had been so long, eight long, agonizing months—since I had heard that sound. 

I had forgotten how much I missed it. I missed the rumble of it, the rare flash of joy on his face... God! I missed him.

Damn it, Lyka, pull yourself together.

As quickly as the light appeared, it vanished. I forced my face into a strict, serious mask. "I can't marry you, Sean. There is no way in hell I would—"

"Hey, that’s just mean," he interrupted, sitting back down and leaning back in his chair, a boyish, offended pout touching his lips. "Lyka, I’m good-looking. I’m an exceptionally good catch. And I’m incredibly rich."

I stared at him deadpan, holding his gaze like a tired schoolteacher watching her most troublesome student say something entirely moronic.

My silence clearly rattled him. He shifted in his seat, looking genuinely confused and slightly bruised in the ego department. "What? Am I not your type?"

I rolled my eyes for what felt like the hundredth time today and dropped heavily back into the armchair across from him. "Listen, boss. A marriage between us is a stupid idea."

"Why?" he demanded.

"Because it would be completely awkward!" I threw my hands up. "I'm your personal assistant. I manage your life, handle your schedules, pick up your dry cleaning, and now... I’m also married to you? What is this, legal slavery?"

Sean gasped, looking thoroughly shocked by my bluntness. "Lyka! I am not trying to enslave you! And you don't have to worry—I’m not going to touch you or sleep with you, if that’s what's making you uncomfortable!" He groaned, looking deeply offended that I’d even suggest it.

I kept my face entirely nonchalant, tilting my chin up as if his words were exactly what I wanted to hear.

But deep inside? Ouch.

The words twisted like a serrated knife in my chest, a direct, brutal stab straight to my heart. 

I’m not going to touch you. It shouldn't have hurt—it was exactly what a professional contract marriage called for, but hearing him say it so easily, with so much certainty that he could never desire me, left a dull, aching bruise on my pride. And my soul.

But did I let a single flicker of that pain show on my face? Hell no. I was Lyka Forth. I had five years of practice hiding my heart from this man, and I wasn't about to break my streak now.

I didn’t say another word. I just stood up again, turned my back on his bewildered expression, and marched straight toward the built-in mahogany bookshelf on the far side of the room. 

I pressed the hidden latch behind the third edition of The Great Gatsby, and with a soft click, the panel swung open to reveal his secret vault of ultra-premium spirits.

Behind me, I heard the sharp intake of Sean’s breath. "How do you even know about that? I’ve never opened that cabinet in front of you."

"I am the keeper of your secrets, Sean," I muttered, not looking back. "I know where you hide your taxes, your spare keys, and your expensive coping mechanisms."

My hands went past the vintage wines. I didn't want wine. I wanted something that would numb the sudden, sharp ache in my chest fast. 

I grabbed a frosted, unlabeled bottle of what I was pretty sure was a ridiculously expensive, high-proof Russian vodka. I didn't bother with elegant glassware. I grabbed two heavy crystal shot glasses from the cart, filled them to the brim, and walked back to his desk.

I slammed one down in front of him and knocked the first shot back myself.

Fire. Absolute liquid fire tore down my throat, making my eyes water instantly. Before my brain could tell me to stop, I poured another and shrugged it back, too.

"Lyka, stop," Sean said, his hand shooting out to catch my wrist just as I eyed a third. He pushed his own untouched glass aside. "Someone needs to have a clear head while we're talking about serious matters."

"You have a clear head. I need a numb one," I slurred slightly.

And boy, did it get numb fast. I was a lightweight on my best days, usually sticking to a single glass of white wine at industry galas. 

Dumping two shots of premium, high-proof vodka into a pasta stomach on a fourteen-hour workday was a recipe for instant disaster. Within three minutes, the room started to tilt beautifully, the sharp edges of my heartbreak softening into a warm, hazy blur.

I leaned my weight against his massive desk, looking down at him as the alcohol unlocked a wave of brutal honesty.

"You want to know the real reason I can’t marry you, boss?" I asked, waving a hand dramatically in the air. 

"Because it wouldn’t be a secret. The media would find out. Your fans would literally rip me apart in the streets. And your manager? The woman acts like she’s your jealous wife already—she’d have me blacklisted from Hollywood by morning. Oh, and let’s not forget your psychotic ex-girlfriend who still stalks your social media. She would actually kill me. Like, with a knife or a gun."

Sean’s expression hardened, his eyes tracking my erratic movements with a mix of concern and intensity. "I can protect you from them, Lyka. I have security, I have legal teams—"

"And I'm not even sure if Leo would agree," I interrupted, my voice dropping as my eyes softened. "He loves me as his temporary nanny, friend, and helper. What if he hates me as a stepmother?"

I was too drunk. The filters I had spent five years carefully constructing were completely dissolving. 

I looked down at Sean, his handsome face blurred at the edges, his dark eyes looking up at me with a desperate, suffocating vulnerability.

Before my logical mind could scream danger, my body moved on its own. I leaned over the desk, reaching out to cup his jaw. 

My palm met the rough, masculine scratch of his late-evening stubble. Sean froze, his entire body going rigid beneath my touch, his breath hitching audibly in the quiet room.

I didn't stop. Guided by a reckless, alcohol-fueled bravery, my thumb slid inward, softly brushing against the lower contour of his lip. 

He didn't pull away. He just stared up at me, his gaze dark, heavy, and suddenly dangerous. The tension in the air became thick, electric, and blindingly hot.

"And guess what else, Sean?" I whispered, my thumb lingering on his warmth, my voice thick with a sudden, tragic wave of emotion. "I’m not going to kiss you. Not in a church, not in this room, not anywhere. Because guess what? Valerie would kill me."