บททั้งหมดของ Ruthless Temptation: บทที่ 21 - บทที่ 30

Emma I knew the moment my father called me into his office unannounced that something was off. He never summoned me unless it was about a deal worth over a hundred million or when I was in trouble. This time, it was the latter. “Close the door, Emma,” he said, not even looking up from his laptop. I obeyed, smoothing down the front of my pencil skirt and swallowing the anxiety crawling up my spine. His tone was clipped, precise. Controlled exactly like him. “Is there something you want to tell me?” he asked, finally glancing up with those piercing blue eyes I inherited. “About?” I played dumb, sliding into the chair opposite his desk. He leaned back in his leather chair, folding his hands. “Killian Thomas.” My heartbeat stuttered. But I kept my face blank, perfectly schooled. “What about him?” “You two seem… close.” The way he said close was laced with implication. Dangerous im

Emma I didn’t expect the weekend getaway to shake me like it did. It was supposed to be just a simple break—nothing more than a distraction from the tensions we’d been building at the office, the carefully maintained distance that we continued to lie about. But here I was, sitting on the edge of the bed in the suite, heart racing, with the scent of Killian still lingering in the air. The cool air outside the hotel suite mingled with the lingering heat from our passion. I had convinced myself that I was fine—this was just physical, a simple release from the pressure of pretending. But then he’d whispered something that stopped me cold. “I need you, Emma,” he had said, his voice so raw, so desperate.That didn’t scare me. What scared me was the way he had looked at me just before, as though I was his whole world. As though the world had disappeared, and only we remained. I had told myself time and time again that I was fine. That I

Emma’ POV I should’ve known better. After his surprise visit, after that god-awful confrontation in the hotel suite, after I told him I loved Killian right to his face I should’ve been more careful. But I wasn’t. Because Killian touched me like I was his last breath. Kissed me like he needed me to survive. And in the chaos of all that emotion, I forgot about consequences. Again. It had been a long week back at headquarters. Tension hung in the air like a storm waiting to explode. My father barely looked at me in meetings. His glares toward Killian were icy, clipped, and filled with restrained rage. But he said nothing. Did nothing. And that silence was more terrifying than his anger. So when Killian pulled me into the file room during our lunch break, I didn’t stop him. I let him press me against the cold cabinet, his hands greedy, mouth hot on my neck. We were reckless.

Emma’s POV My father didn’t speak to me for five days. Not a call. Not a message. Not even one of his passive-aggressive emails disguised as “urgent company updates.” He didn’t so much as glance in my direction during board meetings, despite the fact that I sat two chairs away from him, directly in his peripheral vision. The silence was louder than any screaming match we could have had. Worse, it echoed—through the marble halls of Weston Holdings, through the strained small talk between executives, through the suffocating silence at family dinners where only my mother dared to ask if I was okay. I wasn’t. And neither was Killian. He didn’t push. He didn’t demand answers or ask how I was coping. He simply stayed close. His presence, quiet and unwavering, grounded me in ways I hadn’t realized I needed. Gentle touches at night. Soft kisses to my shoulder each morning. His hand brush

Killian’s POV Monday mornings were never quiet at Weston Enterprises, but this one felt like walking into a war zone—only instead of bullets, there were whispers. Whispers sharp enough to wound. My name floated between cubicles like smoke—soft, curling, impossible to pin down but heavy in the air. “So it’s true?” “He’s with Emma Weston?” “How long’s it been going on?” I kept my head down as I crossed the open floor, ignoring the sideways glances, the curious smirks, the people pretending to work while they watched me. The silence didn’t help—it made the whispers louder. I could feel them cling to my skin, feel the weight of each stare digging into my back like knives. No one said anything to my face. But they didn’t have to. I’d seen the photos. It had broken over the weekend—spilled out of some socialite’s