บททั้งหมดของ Beneath His Ice: บทที่ 51 - บทที่ 60

When the final round of handshakes began, I exhaled — slow, controlled — letting the tension in my shoulders ease.The relief was premature, I realized, but in that moment, I allowed myself to feel it anyway. The evening had been a careful dance on the edge of a knife, and somehow we'd managed not to cut ourselves. At least not visibly.We'd made it. No public scene, no glass-shattering standoffs. Just an evening balanced precariously on silent grudges and unspoken history.Around us, the other guests were beginning their own departure rituals—the subtle glances at phones, the polite mentions of early meetings, the careful orchestration of who left when and with whom. In circles like this, even the order of departure carried meaning.I stepped back from my chair, smoothing the skirt of my dress, when two women approached. Both were dressed like they'd walked out of a glossy spread — jewel-toned silk, hair swept into styles that looked effortless but probably took hours.The taller of

The finality in his voice was absolute, but it only made me more determined to get answers. He was protecting something, hiding something, and his refusal to explain only made the situation more dangerous.I leaned forward an inch. "Why not?"The movement brought me closer to him, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, close enough to catch the full impact of his scent. The space between us felt charged, electric with tension that had nothing to do with Zayn and everything to do with the dangerous attraction that had been building between us for weeks.His gaze flicked over my face, unreadable. "Because now you'll hear his version first. And I want to see if you can tell the difference."The implication hit me like a physical blow. He was testing me, setting up some kind of experiment where I would be the unwitting subject. The idea that he would use me as a pawn in whatever game he was playing with his brother made anger flare hot in my chest.But undernea

One woman, elegant in her sixties with silver hair swept into a perfect chignon, had mentioned her husband's real estate empire in the same casual tone she used to describe her daughter's wedding plans. Another, younger but no less poised, had discussed her own tech startup while simultaneously coordinating childcare arrangements via text.What struck me most wasn't their wealth — it was their endurance. They had been through storms I couldn't yet imagine and were still standing, heels planted firmly beside the most powerful men in the room."The trick," the silver-haired woman had told me as we stood by the windows overlooking Central Park, "is remembering that survival isn't the same as thriving. Too many women confuse the two."Her words had resonated in ways I was still processing.If they could do it, maybe I could too.The thought had stayed with me all week, quietly fueling me through long afternoons at the office. If these women could navigate the treacherous waters of power a

I knew it now—the smoky, amber weight of it was unmistakable. It explained the looseness in his posture, the slight drag in his voice, the way he was looking at me like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve rather than an employee who should probably have left hours ago.I'd never seen Killian drink more than half a glass at business events, always in control, always careful. He was the kind of man who nursed a single scotch through an entire networking dinner, more focused on reading the room than enjoying the alcohol. But here, alone in his office at 8 p.m., with his tie abandoned and his sleeves rolled...The reality landed hard: Killian Vale was drunk.Not stumbling, not slurring—but loosened. The iron edges softened just enough to show the man under the armor.And I wasn't sure what to do with that."Congratulations," I said, because that seemed like the appropriate response. "I know you've been working on that acquisition for months."He made a sound that might have been a laugh

b"I need you to stop playing with my mind, Miss Emery Quinn."The words hung between us, low and deliberate, each one landing like it had been measured before leaving his mouth.The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees, or maybe it was just me — suddenly hyperaware of every sensation, every sound, every breath. The way he said my full name, with that careful precision he reserved for moments when control was slipping, made my skin prickle with warning.I forgot how to breathe.Not because of the sentence itself — though it was dangerous enough — but because of the way he was looking at me when he said it. His eyes weren't cold the way they usually were. They were… intent. Focused. As if I was the only thing in the room worth noticing.Those dark eyes held mine with an intensity that made me feel exposed, vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with clothing or physical space. It was like he could see straight through all the professional facades and careful bounda