“I’m very good at helping people adapt,” he says, the innuendo clear in his dark eyes.
Before I can formulate an appropriately cutting response, Adrian ends his call with a sharp “Fine” and turns to face us all.
“The summit has been rescheduled,” he announces, as if declaring a natural disaster. “Our presentation slot is now in three days, assuming the storm clears by then.”
Three days. My stomach drops. Coinciding perfectly with my suppressant shortage. The universe has a sick sense of humor.
“Three days in paradise,” Caleb muses, gesturing widely at the luxurious villa. “However will we pass the time?”
“By maintaining absolute professionalism,” Adrian says sharply. “This is still a business trip, albeit a disrupted one. We need to establish clear parameters.”
“Parameters,” Caleb repeats, rolling the word around like he’s tasting fine wine. “Sounds kinky.”
Miles finally speaks, his deep voice cutting through the tension. “The villa’s secure. Two entry points—main door and patio. Electronic locks, but the power system has backup generators. We shouldn’t lose security even if the storm worsens.”
All three of us turn to look at him. He shrugs, unapologetic. “Habit.”
I’m momentarily distracted from my own crisis by curiosity. What kind of life does Miles Harrington lead that security assessments are instinctive? What is he always watching for? But the question dissolves as Adrian begins pacing again, clearly building to something.
“We need a code of conduct,” he declares. “Clear boundaries. This situation is unprecedented and potentially complicated.”
He doesn’t look at me when he says this, but I feel the weight of his meaning. An Omega. Three Alphas. Biological imperatives that good blockers and corporate etiquette usually keep in check.
Without saying it outright, he’s acknowledging the elephant in the room.
“I agree,” I say, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounds. “Professional boundaries are essential, especially given our competing interests at the summit.”
Adrian nods, seemingly relieved that I’m supporting his position. “Common areas are neutral territory. No work calls without warning others, so sensitive information isn’t overheard. Meals can be taken privately or together, but no business discussion at the table.”
“Separate bathrooms, separate bedrooms,” Caleb contributes, his tone mockingly serious. “No sleepovers without written consent forms in triplicate.”
Adrian ignores him. “And most importantly, no biological manipulation.”
The room temperature seems to drop ten degrees. My face heats despite my best efforts to remain impassive. He’s talking about pheromones. About scenting. About the very thing I’m terrified will happen when my blockers run out.
“No fun-scenting before breakfast,” Caleb adds with a lazy grin. “It’s uncivilized.”
“This isn’t a joke, Rios,” Adrian snaps. “We’re all adults with biological responses that can be distracting in close quarters. Blockers should be maintained. Personal space respected.”
Miles watches this exchange with unreadable eyes, then adds quietly, “The resort stocks suppressants in the gift shop. Basic commercial grade. Not medical strength, but better than nothing in an emergency.”
My head whips toward him. How does he know this? And more importantly, how did he know it might be relevant? Has he already detected weakness in my blocker regimen? My heart races painfully in my chest.
“Good to know,” I say, fighting to keep my voice casual. “Though I doubt any of us would forget something so basic.”
Miles holds my gaze a beat too long, something like understanding flickering in his cool blue eyes. He knows. Somehow, he knows I’m in trouble. I look away first, unnerved by his perception.
“Any other ‘rules’ we should establish?” Caleb asks, clearly amused by the entire conversation. “No running with scissors? No touching Adrian’s hair products? No loud music after ten?”
“How about no deliberate antagonism?” I suggest, giving him a pointed look.
He grins, unrepentant. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“This isn’t about fun,” Adrian interjects. “It’s about surviving three days in close quarters without incident.”
“Define ‘incident,’” Caleb challenges, leaning forward. Something dangerous glints in his eyes—not aggression exactly, but intent. Purpose. Like he’s playing a game the rest of us don’t fully understand. “Are we talking corporate espionage? Competitive sabotage? Or something more primal?”
The word hangs in the air, loaded with meaning. Primal. The antithesis of everything I’ve built my professional identity around. Control. Reason. Intellect over instinct.
