All Chapters of In His Sheets: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

I didn’t stay long after that. The music was still playing, people were still laughing, glasses still clinking as if nothing had happened, but something in me had already checked out. I found Elise eventually. “Hey,” she said, immediately noticing my face. “Are you okay?” “I’m just tired,” I replied, forcing a small smile. “I think I’m going to head home.” Her brows pulled together slightly. “Already? You just got here. Did something happen?” “Long day,” I said lightly. “Work.” She studied me for a second longer, like she wasn’t entirely convinced, but then she nodded. “Okay… text me when you get home, alright?” “I will.” She hugged me again, soft, warm, genuine. The ride back to my side of the city was a quiet, suffocating blur. I sat near the grime-smeared window of the night bus, my fingers tightly gripping the torn strap of the emerald gown. The fabric felt like a shroud now, a heavy reminder of how quickly a mask can be ripped away. The cold weight of Adrian

I picked up the stack of heavy, textured folders from the side table. My hands were steady—forced into compliance by sheer survival instinct. I stepped up to the table, moving silently from the back of the room toward the front, placing a folder gently to the right of each executive. One for Sarah. One for the CFO. One for Clara. Finally, I reached the head of the table. Adrian was typing something into his laptop, his profile sharp and imposing up close. I could smell the faint scent of his cedarwood cologne, the same scent from that dark hallway at the Vance Estate. I leaned forward slightly, placing the final folder on the polished wood next to his hand. "The third-quarter breakdown, Mr. Holt," I murmured, keeping my voice low, monotone, and entirely devoid of the warmth I had used with Elsie or Leonard. I began to pull my hand back, ready to retreat into the shadows. Adrian’s fingers stopped typing. The sudden cessation of the clicking keys felt louder than a gunshot

Mr Holt I pulled my hand back from her jaw, but the heat of her skin stayed burned into my fingertips. Fuck!. I looked down at her, my chest rising and falling in heavy, controlled breaths. She stood trapped between my frame and the mahogany desk, her chin tilted up, her chest heaving beneath that ridiculous, high-necked corporate blouse. She had scrubbed the paint off her face and pulled her hair into a knot so tight it looked painful, but it didn't change what she was. Elizabeth Monroe. A spoiled, reckless upper-class brat playing dress-up in her aunt’s office. My blood was boiling, thick and hostile, hammering against my temples with a violence I hadn't felt in years. I hated her type. I hated the desperate, manipulative climb of women who used their skin as currency. But as I stared into her wide, defiant eyes, a sudden, unwanted jolt of electricity slammed straight into my gut. My body tightened, reacting to her proximity with a primitive, humiliating urgency that

The heavy double doors of the penthouse suite rattled with a sudden, aggressive knock, shattering the suffocating silence between us. I instantly pulled my hand back from the trackpad, my skin still tingling where his large, hot palm had just crushed mine against the laptop. My breath came in shallow, ragged gaps. He was standing so close I could feel the heat radiating off his chest, his shadow completely swallowing me. "Mr. Holt?" Marcus’s voice came muffled but urgent through the thick oak. "I apologize for the interruption, but your secretary from the London transit office is on the secure line. The ground crew needs your digital signature to clear the private transport files immediately before the weather turns." Adrian slowly straightened up. The terrifying, magnetic weight of his presence lifted just enough for the air to rush back into my lungs. He didn't look at the door. His steel-grey eyes stayed locked onto my face for one more long, agonizing second, filled with

My throat went entirely dry. I nodded stiffly, gripping my folder tightly against my chest to hide the shaking of my hands, and walked down the long, polished corridor. The door to the private client suite was closed. I knocked twice, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "Come in," the deep, cold baritone called out. I pushed the door open and stepped inside. Adrian was standing by the window, a cup of black coffee in his hand. He hadn't changed since I last saw him, not that I expected him to. He was wearing a charcoal-grey bespoke three-piece that made his massive frame look even more imposing. He didn't turn around immediately. He let the door click shut, the silence stretching between us until I could barely breathe. When he finally turned, his steel-grey eyes locked onto my face, cold, calculating, and dripping with an absolute, lethal contempt and disgust. To think that my fake family background didn't make him see me differently only solidified my de