All Chapters of One Night, Wrong Man: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

-POV Derby The thing about old money is that it doesn’t scream. It whispers. It takes its time, sits back in a leather-bound chair, and lets the silence do the heavy lifting. Up on the forty-second floor, the chaos of the afternoon integration brief had finally cleared out. The heavy mahogany doors of Jordan’s private office suite were shut, cutting off the low hum of the executive floor. The room smelled of expensive leather, rich espresso, and the sharp, distinct scent of winter air lingering near the glass window. Jordan stood by the glass, his hands shoved deep into his trousers pockets, his navy jacket unbuttoned. From the outside, he looked like the picture of absolute control. But his jaw was locked tight, his dark eyes fixed on the city grid below like he was calculating exactly how much pressure it would take to break a boundary line. Sitting on the plush velvet sofa across from his desk, Tamara was casually flipping through a glossy bridal catalog. Her emerald scarf was

-POV DerbyThe heavy mahogany doors of the forty-second floor suite didn't just feel shut; they felt locked. The slice of amber light from his desk threw long, sharp shadows across the dark floorboards, cutting us off from the rest of the corporate tower. Outside those glass windows, the city grid was still moving, but inside this room, the air was hot, thick, and completely ruined by the space we had just crossed.Jordan’s fingers were still wrapped around the back of my neck, his palm a heavy, unyielding weight that kept me anchored straight to his chest. His thumb pressed into the soft skin right behind my ear, his grip firm enough to leave a mark, but I wasn't trying to pull away."This is going to wreck everything, Derby," he murmured, his voice incredibly rough, the words scratching against the quiet room. He didn't sound like a billionaire successor executing a tactical merger. He sounded like a man who knew he was walking straight into a trap and didn't care about the exit an

-POV Derby The folder with the compliance logs stayed on the corner of his desk, completely forgotten. By the time the office clock ticked past 8:00 PM, the tense, transactional energy that usually defined the forty-second floor had completely dissolved. We didn't scramble to fix our clothes, and Jordan didn't slide his corporate mask back on to dismiss me. Instead, he sat on the edge of the low leather sofa by the window, his long legs stretched out, while I sat beside him with my knees pulled up, sharing the glass of amber whiskey he’d poured earlier. It was an quiet, domestic kind of rhythm that felt a thousand times more dangerous than any quick hookup against the wall. "You're doing it again," Jordan said, his voice a low, lazy rumble through the quiet room. I looked up from the amber liquid swirling in the crystal glass. "Doing what?" "Thinking too much." He reached out, his long, scarred fingers gently wrapping around my ankle, his thumb sliding over the bone in a slow, c

-POV Derby The logistics seminar in the main hall was turning into an absolute nightmare by eleven-thirty. The air conditioning in the pavilion was struggling against the heat of a hundred people packed into the tiered seating rows, and the volume in the room had escalated from a polite corporate buzz to an aggressive shouting match. A senior regional manager from the Chicago office was standing near the projection screen, his face bright red as he slammed a heavy binder against the podium. "The compliance transition plan is a complete joke!" he yelled, his voice echoing off the glass panels. "We're being asked to restructure our entire operational framework in less than two weeks based on data compiled by a junior administrative pool! It’s completely unrealistic!" I stood near the technical desk at the back of the hall, my fingers frozen over the lighting controls. A cold, tight knot of anxiety twisted deep in my stomach. The data he was screaming about wasn't just random adminis

-POV Derby The double doors of the east terrace stayed open just enough for the afternoon breeze to cut through the heavy scent of white orchids. I stood near the secondary service station, my clipboard held flat against my ribs as I watched the VIP tables fill up with the principal shareholders of the Vanguard merger. I had delivered the menus, checked the seating rows, and verified the digital logistics badges for the executive assistants. My job for the noon hour was technically done. I should have walked back down to the lower-level staff lounge where the coffee was cheap and the fluorescent lights didn't make my fifty-dollar blazer look like a discount item. Instead, my feet wouldn't move. I was trapped near the edge of the terrace, my eyes tracking the movement of a single emerald silk dress across the polished floor. Tamara was sitting at the center table, right next to Jordan’s father. She didn't look like she was participating in a corporate luncheon; she looked like she