All Chapters of Beneath His Ice: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

The smile faded as I thought about it. Tonight felt different, though. More complicated. Usually when Layla abandoned me, the worst thing I had to deal with was some overeager finance bro who couldn’t take a hint. Tonight I was left sorting through the wreckage of whatever had just happened with Killian, trying to figure out if the man beside me was genuine or playing some game I didn’t understand. “Well,” Zayn said, “you’re not dead, and I’m not drunk. So we’re still doing better than most nights.” I laughed, even if it was tired. The sound surprised me—I hadn’t expected to find anything funny right now. But there was something about his easy confidence that made it impossible to stay completely on edge. “Yeah,” I said. “I guess we are.” Then I looked back at him, really looked. Zayn was… objectively attractive. The kind of dark, mysterious handsome that romance novels were built on. Strong jaw, expressive eyes, the kind of smile that probably made most women forget their ow

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice rasping like she hadn’t meant for it to come out so soft, so breathless.My hand was flat against the wall beside her head, the stone cool beneath my palm. I didn’t touch her. Not yet. But my body was vibrating with restraint, every muscle coiled tight with the effort of holding myself back.“Exactly,” I said, my voice rougher than I’d intended. “That’s what I want to know. What the hell are you doing here?”She blinked, stunned. For a moment, her mask slipped entirely, and I saw something vulnerable flash across her features before she locked it down again.“You don’t get to ask me that.”Her voice was stronger now, edged with the steel I knew so well from the office. But there was something underneath it, something that sounded almost like hurt.“Don’t I?”The question hung between us like a challenge. We both knew I had no right. I was her boss, nothing more. Whatever happened in her personal life was none of my business.Except it felt li

I arrived fifteen minutes earlier than usual—not because I was eager, but because I didn't want to run into him in the elevator.The building lobby was eerily quiet at this hour, just the security guard behind his marble desk and the soft whoosh of the revolving doors. My heels clicked against the polished floor as I made my way to the elevator bank, each step echoing in the vast space.The elevator ride to the forty-second floor felt like ascending to my own execution.The top floor was as pristine as always. Marble floors, glass walls, and silence sharp enough to slice skin.I walked to my desk, ignoring the way my stomach clenched with every step.He wasn't here yet.Good.I needed time.To think. To breathe. To remember who I was before he looked at me like that.Before his voice crawled under my skin and made itself a home.I settled at my desk and powered up my computer, going through the motions of ch

The afternoon light was starting to change, growing golden and long through the windows, when I found myself scrolling through old photos. College days when the biggest crisis was a failed exam or a boy who didn’t text back. Pictures of Layla being ridiculous—photobombing strangers, making faces at inappropriate moments, wearing a traffic cone as a hat at some random party. Photos of Milo burning pancakes and acting like a five-star chef, flour in his hair and this expression of intense concentration like he was performing surgery.It all felt so innocent now. So beautifully, blissfully simple.I lingered on a photo from last spring—the three of us at some outdoor festival, sticky with cotton candy and sunscreen, grinning like idiots. I looked so young in that picture. Not in years, but in experience. Like I still believed the world was predictable, that I could control my own narrative.When had that changed? When had I become someone who cleaned obsessively to quiet her mind, who to

The box was beautiful. Not just packaging but art. Everything about it screamed expensive in a way that made my small apartment feel even more cramped and shabby by comparison. I carried it to the living room like it might explode, setting it carefully on my coffee table.For a long moment, I just stared at it.Expensive things didn’t just arrive at my door. The most extravagant package I’d ever received was a care package from my mother containing homemade cookies and a gift card to Target.This was something else entirely.I peeled off the paper slowly, afraid of damaging whatever lay beneath. The wrapping came away to reveal a pristine white box with a name written in delicate gold calligraphy that made my breath catch.*Maison du Lys.*My throat dried.Maison du Lys?I’d only ever seen that name in magazines, on red carpets, in those “what celebrities wore” articles that made me feel like I was peering throu