Chapter 3: The Boardroom Humiliation

  The executive boardroom felt like a pressure cooker. Ten of us sat around the long mahogany table—Potter Watts, a row of rigid marketing executives, team staff, and me. My printed strategy notes were spread out in front of me like a paper shield, but they offered zero protection when Logan McAllister strolled in twenty minutes late, a leggy blonde clinging to his arm.

  The girl looked like she’d come straight from a VIP lounge—a skin-tight dress, smeared lipstick, and the glazed, manic look of someone who existed solely for reckless nights and mornings she’d rather forget. Logan didn’t even acknowledge the rest of the room. He dropped into the oversized leather chair at the head of the table like a king reclaiming a throne, pulling the girl down onto his lap.

  “Get to work, mouse,” he said, those cold grey eyes locking onto mine with surgical precision. “You’re here to pitch your little charity bullshit, right? Start talking.”

  My mouth went completely dry. I could already feel the faint, toxic tremor in my throat—the old stutter stirring at the base of my tongue like a snake ready to strike.

  “I—I’ve prepared a comprehensive youth hockey initiative,” I began, forcing my gaze to hover somewhere near his left shoulder rather than looking him in the eye. “We could partner with local schools, have you donate gear, and appear for a few weekend sessions. It would humanize—”

  “Look at me when you speak to me.”

  His voice wasn’t loud, but it was dangerously low, cutting through my words. When I hesitated, his hand moved beneath the heavy mahogany table. The girl giggled softly, a high, breathy sound, before slipping off his lap and disappearing entirely beneath the wood with a soft rustle of fabric.

  Then came the sound.

  Wet. Rhythmic. Utterly obscene in the dead silence of a corporate boardroom.

  My stomach twisted into a violent knot. The air conditioning hummed overhead, a mechanical buzz that did nothing to drown out the filthy, deliberate noises filling the space between my sentences.

  Logan leaned back, one arm draped casually over the back of his chair. His jaw was tight, a sharp line of tension, but his eyes never left mine. They were wide, mocking, and intensely focused.

  “Keep going,” he ordered, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly rasp. “Eyes on me, Rhea. Tell me how you’re going to fix my image while I get my dick sucked.”

  Humiliation burned through my veins so fiercely I thought the heat might stop my heart. I looked around the table for a savior, but found only cowards. The marketing guys were staring hyper-intently at their phones, their knuckles white. Potter Watts simply stared down at his legal pad, his jaw set, completely ignoring the violation happening three feet away. Logan was too valuable to cross. I was completely on my own.

  “I… w-we could frame it as a… a redemption arc,” I stammered. The stutter was back full force now, tripping over my tongue like broken glass. “F-from s-steroid suspension to… to community leader. Ch-charity work shows accountability.”

  Logan’s breathing grew heavier, his chest rising and falling in time with the rhythmic movement hidden beneath the table. His grey eyes darkened, burning into me with a cruel, sadistic satisfaction.

  “Accountability,” he mocked, his lips curling into a vicious smirk. “That’s cute coming from a scared little doormat who can’t even say two words without choking on her own tongue. Look at me, mouse. Don’t you dare look away.”

  I couldn't breathe. The room was spinning. I pushed back from the table, my legs shaking so badly I knocked my water bottle over, the liquid pooling across my notes.

  “I—I can’t do this,” I whispered, my voice cracking under the weight of the humiliation. “This is inappropriate. I’m leaving.”

  I made it exactly three steps toward the door before his voice cracked through the room like a leather whip.

  “Sit the fuck down.”

  The sheer threat in his tone froze my boots to the floor. Logan stood, adjusting his sweatpants with zero shame while the girl remained hidden beneath the table. In two massive strides, he crossed the room, his six-foot-five frame completely blotting out the exit.

  “You walk out that door and the contract dies,” he whispered, leaning down until his shadow consumed me. “No money. No debt relief. And I’ll have Potter sue you for breach before the sun sets. Every PR firm in the country will know you're unstable. You’ll crawl back to teaching piano to broke kids while your debt buries you alive.”

  His hand came up, his large, rough fingers resting gently against the pulse point of my throat. He didn't squeeze. It was just a heavy, warm pressure—a terrifying promise.

  “And we both know you need this money, don’t we, mouse?” His thumb stroked the tight muscle of my jaw. “So turn around, sit your tiny ass back in that chair, and finish your pitch while I finish what I started. And keep your eyes on me.”

  Tears burned the backs of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall in front of him. The mountain of debt, Greyson’s mocking voicemails, the terrifying reality of losing my only lifeline… it pinned me in place.

  I turned around and walked back to the table.

  The girl resumed her work the second Logan slid back into his chair. I forced my gaze to lock onto his face—onto those victorious, unhinged grey eyes—while my voice broke and stuttered through the remaining pages of my presentation.

  By the time he finally came with a low, satisfied grunt against the underside of the table, something inside me didn't just break—it hardened. This wasn’t a job anymore. It was a cage.

  But as I looked at the monster across from me, I realized he hadn't realized one thing: I had already survived hell once. And I could survive him, too.