“Thank you.”
I hang up, then call Bethany, instructing her to arrange the meeting.
There are a million things I should do today. Instead, I’m sitting here, a spike of adrenaline sluicing through my veins at the prospect of seeing the girl who’s already taken up far too much of my time.
Every jibe she threw, every flash of defiance, has done nothing but stoke a fire in me—one that’s edging dangerously close to burning out of control.
Chapter four
Chase
My ears prick at the sound of the elevator doors, sensing she’s here before she’s even in sight. I move closer to the one-way glass of my office to watch her as my conference call with Monarch’s legal team drones on in my ear. She looks different today. A stark contrast to how I first saw her—angry, spitting venom with every word. Now, there’s a quietness about her that makes her seem younger, more vulnerable. And, disturbingly, it only makes her a thousand times more beautiful.
I stalk her every move like I’m scoping out enemy territory, trying to preempt her next move. She’s nervous. Antsy. Her gaze flickers to my door, her foot bobbing in a restless rhythm. Her hands comb through her hair, the sleek strands that fall over her shoulders. A small silver grip pins back a section of her hair at the temple, the shine catching the light whenever she moves.
I should focus on my conference call. But I can’t. My attention keeps straying to her, to the way her restlessness eases when Bethany says something to her. She looks up, a flicker of warmthbreaking through her nerves, and then she smiles—a small, hesitant thing that slowly grows into something radiant.
And that smile does something to me, something I don’t like. It presses into my chest, a strange ache I can’t explain. I pace back and forward, loosening my tie, unable to drag my eyes away as Bethany holds out her phone and Violet stands, approaching the desk, smiling as Bethany points to the screen. Pictures of her children, I imagine. Then Violet holds out her phone, and Bethany smiles. Does she have children of her own? The air stalls in my lungs at the thought until I snap myself out of it.
“Chase, did you hear me?” John, the company lawyer pulls me back to the moment. I exhale with frustration, annoyed at myself for wasting even a second on someone who shouldn’t matter. Someone who shouldn’t have any significance beyond how she can contribute to this project. I never let women distract me at work—it’s one of my cardinal rules. I have more than enough outside the office to keep me satisfied.
“Listen, John. Let me get back to you on that. I have a short meeting now, then I’ll call you straight after.”
I hang up without waiting for a response, turning to the HR file Sarah delivered earlier. Inside is Violet’s forged Princeton University degree—a polished fake, but a fake nonetheless. My instincts are rarely wrong; all it took was a single phone call to Princeton’s admissions office to confirm it. Violet Harper never set foot on that campus.
I call through to Bethany, instructing her to send her in, and I sit behind my desk, my mouth watering with anticipation.
There’s a quiet knock before she enters, a polite, strained smile painted on her face.
“Sit, Violet,” I say, motioning to the chair opposite me. She bites her lip as if swallowing her annoyance at my brusque tone. And if I was in any doubt as to her feelings towards me, the fire brimming in her dark green eyes tell me everything I needto know. She hates me. With a passion. I grip my pen, almost snapping it in two, her defiance fueling my appetite to dominate. How did I not notice that figure before? Her fitted jersey, hugging her firm curves, the open V-neck revealing a glimpse of creamy skin and the delicate silver locket adorning her slender neck. Her A-line skirt brushes the slope of her thighs in a way that shouldn’t affect me this much.
Violet steps toward my desk, her jaw set tight, and offers a clipped, “Good morning,” before dropping into the chair across from me. Not a single word more. Her eyes dart around the room, but the moment they land on the Princeton certificate lying idly on my desk, she stiffens. The color drains from her face, and for a split second, I see fear. Real visceral fear. Her lips part slightly, and she swallows hard, as if trying to push down whatever emotion is clawing its way up her throat.
“Why... why do you have that?” she asks, her voice uneven, barely above a whisper, like she’s bracing herself for the inevitable.
I don’t answer. I just watch as her gaze shoots between me and the damning piece of paper. Realization dawns in her eyes before her walls snap back into place. My little hellion from yesterday resurfaces, fury blazing behind her expression like a storm rolling in.
She leans forward, planting her hands on my desk, the action pushing her full breasts together in a way that makes me shift in my seat.
“What is this?” she repeats, her voice gaining strength.
“I think you know what it is, Violet.”
Her eyes darken, and she waves a hand across the room, frustration spilling out. “So this is why you wanted to see me?” she snaps. “Firing me once wasn’t enough? You had to drag me here again to relive the experience? Was it that enjoyable for you? You just wanted to do it all over again?” She pushes to herfeet, her chair scraping against the floor, and I see the shimmer of angry tears pooling in her eyes.
“Don’t take one step out of this room, Violet,” I warn, my voice laced with just enough authority to make her hesitate.
Her hand stills on the door handle, knuckles white, but she doesn’t turn to face me. Instead, she glares at me from the corner of her eye, her jaw tightening. “Or what?” she bites out. “You don’t hold any power over me anymore.”
Standing, I take a measured step closer. “I think we both know,” I growl, quickly closing the distance. “I could ruin you before you even step out of this building.”
She whirls around, her back hitting the door with a soft thud, eyes blazing with hatred. My hand moves to the handle, gripping it firmly, my other arm bracing against the door beside her head. For a moment, neither of us speaks. Our breaths are shallow, mingling in the narrow space between us.
Her chest rises and falls, and I can see the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat. I take in the delicate curves of her face—heart-shaped, full lips parted just slightly, and those emerald eyes framed by long lashes that flicker with uncertainty.
My eyes meander to her lips, and it takes a monumental effort to step away. I drag a hand through my hair, exhaling heavily. “Look, I understand,” I say, holding my hands up in surrender, my tone softer but still firm. “You did what you had to do to survive. And believe me, I, more than anyone, appreciate that.”
She crosses her arms over her chest, her shoulders tensing, but she doesn’t interrupt. She watches me with wary eyes, her lips pressing into a thin line.
