He hasn’t looked at me once, his attention solely on his laptop screen, fingers moving efficiently across the keys. His suit jacket is now draped over the back of his chair, his rolled-up sleeves revealing the intricate links of a Patek watch, the gold and silver glinting against his tan skin when they catch the light. His forearms, all sinewy muscles, and roped veins, shouldn’t be sodistracting, but I gawp, nonetheless. It’s an effort to drag my gaze away when it’s Mischa’s turn to speak. This is ridiculous. I’m behaving like a sex-starved nymph, getting hot and bothered about forearms.
Mischa rattles off her updates on front-end optimization in her usual professional style, her gaze wandering to Chase at every turn. His expression shifts slightly as he listens, his mouth curling into something dangerously close to a smile. The simple action twists something hot and irrational inside me—the little green monster popping up to saygotcha. Mischa is exactly the type Knightwell recruits: Ivy League, ruthless professionalism, never less than perfect, and certainly not prone to sneaking into the CEO’s bathroom or faking certificates.
“Violet,” Austen says with an eagerness that surprises me. “Your update?”
“Of course,” I say, flashing him a quick smile and pulling up the file on my laptop screen. I dive into my update, spouting off insights and adjustments. Austen leans in, his focus razor-sharp. He’s nodding along, an almost excited gleam in his eyes as if what I’m saying is groundbreaking, or that could be the lack of sleep clouding my perception.
“So,” I continue, sneaking a glance at Chase, who hasn’t so much as twitched in my direction. What’s he even doing—drafting my severance package letter to HR?
“The core algorithm is progressing on schedule. We’ve optimized the processing pipeline, which has reduced load time by twenty percent. This will allow for smoother scaling. Our next target is refining the predictive models to handle larger datasets.”
Austen smiles in approval, but it’s Chase’s reaction I’m waiting for. When his dark eyes finally lift from the screen, they lock onto mine—intense and impossible to read. My stomach flips. For a brief moment, I remember last night’s dream—his handsgripping my waist, his mouth trailing my thighs, his stubble rough against my skin. I swallow hard and force myself to hold his gaze, pretending to be unaffected.
“What are your projections on scalability? Chase asks, his voice low but authoritative.
I glance at my screen, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I anticipate a thirty percent increase in capacity with the adjustments I’m making.”
My heart thumps as he studies me for a beat too long. Then, without another word, he turns to Mark. “We need to move faster. Adjust the timelines and make it happen.”
My jaw tightens at his dismissive tone, but I keep my features impartial. I’m already on thin ice. And if he wants me to be a perfect little Knightwell robot, that’s what I’ll be.
“Thank you,” Austen says, taking the sting out of Chase’s indifference. I sit back down, determined not to let it bother me.
But when Chase directs his next question at Mischa. He listens intently, and this time, the smile isn’t subtle—it’s clear, appreciative, and I think Mischa just died and went to heaven. And I just died a little, too—but not in a good way. I’m not sure where all this irrational jealousy is coming from.
As the meeting wraps up, Chase leans forward in his chair, drumming his fingers against the boardroom table, drawing all eyes to him. Just his presence alone effortlessly commands the entire room.
“We need to stay on top of this,” he says, his impenetrable focus making everyone shift in their seats. “There is no room for delays. Mark, I expect an updated timeline by the end of the day.”
Mark’s shoulders sag, but he quickly recovers. “Understood.”
Chase shuts his laptop with a decisive snap and rises, slipping his jacket on in one fluid motion.
“Austen, a word,” he says, already moving to the door. Austen follows as Mark watches them go with a pained smile. As soon as they are out of sight and earshot, the smile slides off his face faster than cheap face paint.
“Right, we need to step it up,” he says, not a trace of the fake cheeriness from five seconds ago. As if we haven’t already been working ourselves to the bone.
“But if we rush too much, it could have negative consequences for the finished system,” I grumble, sliding my laptop back into its case.
Mark raises a brow. “You volunteering to tell Chase his demands are unreasonable?”
I stay silent because, of course, I’m not.
“Exactly,” Mark says with a smirk, satisfied with my lack of response.
We trudge back to our desks, the weight of a million unfinished tasks pressing down on me. The morning blurs into a mess of emails and code until my stomach stages a full-blown protest. I skipped breakfast, but no one dares to leave before Mark does.
I’m eyeing my pencil sharpener like a viable snack when Mark finally slips on his jacket and announces he’s off for a two-hour lunch appointment.Woo-hoo. Two whole hours of freedom.
“Alright for some,” Seb mutters.
“He’s probably meeting his other woman,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “Did you smell him today? He’s got so much cologne on, I’m practically high.”
Seb grins. “Millie said she saw him with someone last week. Definitely not business.”
Millie is the eyes and ears of this place. No scandal escapes her radar, so I’m confident it’s true.
“I’m shocked he even has a wife,” Seb adds. “Let alone a mistress.”
