. . .
Elle
Dinner isa minefield of scents and subtle posturing.
The four of us sit around the villa’s dining table while rain lashes the windows like angry fingers demanding entry. I focus on my breathing—slow, controlled, professional—while pretending not to notice how Adrian cuts his food with military precision, how Caleb’s eyes keep finding mine across the candlelight, how Miles observes everything while revealing nothing.
Normal. This is all completely normal. Just four corporate professionals sharing a meal while a tropical storm rages outside and my body wages its own rebellion within.
“The resort chef deserves a raise,” Caleb says, breaking the silence that’s stretched a touch too long. He gestures with his fork at the seafood spread before us—grilled mahi-mahi, coconut rice, tropical vegetables arranged with artistic flair. “Though I’m not convinced the ‘caught fresh this morning’ claim holds water during a typhoon.”
“It’s not technically a typhoon,” I correct automatically. “Just a tropical storm system.”
“Always so precise,” Caleb grins, the candlelight catching the amber flecks in his eyes. “I admire that about you, Elle. Your attention to detail.”
The way he draws out the final word makes heat crawl up my neck. I reach for my water glass, needing the cool liquid to counteract the warmth spreading through me. Miles’s neutralizers are working better than my previous blockers, but they, too, will eventually succumb to biology and proximity.
“The resort likely maintains refrigerated storage for fresh catch,” Adrian says, his voice deliberately practical, steering the conversation away from dangerous waters. “Emergency protocols would include food supplies for extended weather events.”
Miles nods, spearing a piece of fish with mathematical precision. “They have a three-day backup generator system. Standard for luxury resorts in storm-prone regions.”
“How do you know that?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“I know things,” he replies simply, his cool blue eyes meeting mine briefly before returning to his plate.
The conversation drifts to safer topics—the rescheduled summit, weather predictions, resort amenities—as we eat. It’s almost normal, almost comfortable.
The food is excellent, though my appetite wavers between ravenous and nonexistent, another symptom of my approaching heat. I manage small, measured bites, focusing on the flavors rather than the three sets of eyes that keep finding me despite their best efforts.
Adrian is at my left. He sits at the head of the table as if his position of authority is always assumed. His presence is both comforting and suffocating—a wall of controlled Alpha energy that radiates protection but also possession.
After the bathroom debacle earlier, he’s changed into a fresh button-down, crisp and perfect despite our island isolation. Control made manifest.
Caleb lounges opposite me, deliberately casual in a linen shirt rolled up at the sleeves, exposing tanned forearms. He uses his hands when he talks, gestures flowing and expressive. Everything about him invites attention—his smile, his laugh, the way he makes every story sound like a confidence shared just between us.
Miles is the hardest to read, seated at my right. His movements are economical, his contributions to the conversation minimal but precise.
Yet I’m acutely aware of him—the subtle shifts in his posture when Caleb leans too close to me, the careful way he passes dishes without allowing our fingers to touch, the assessing glances he thinks I don’t notice.
“So,” Caleb says, leaning back in his chair with a glass of wine dangling from his fingers, “anyone want to address the elephant in the room?”
I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth. Adrian’s hand tightens on his knife.
“What elephant would that be?” Adrian asks, voice dangerously calm.
Caleb waves his free hand expansively. “The fact that we’re supposed to be fierce competitors, yet here we are having a cozy dinner like old friends. It’s weird, right? Shouldn’t we be guarding trade secrets or something?”
The tension in my shoulders eases slightly. Not the elephant I feared he meant.
“Professional courtesy isn’t friendship,” Adrian replies coolly.
“Always so suspicious, Cole.” Caleb shakes his head, grinning. “What if we used this unexpected situation to, I don’t know, actually collaborate? NovaDyne’s neural interface, Synercom’s quantum processor, Titan Global’s investment network—we could revolutionize the industry instead of fighting for market scraps.”
“A charming fantasy,” Miles comments, the first hint of amusement coloring his voice.
“I’m serious!” Caleb insists. “Think bigger picture. What if?—”
The rest of his sentence vanishes as a wave of heat surges through me without warning—intense and overwhelming.
