He was calm.But it was the kind of calm that came before lightning cracked the sky.His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were scanning everything.Calculating.Absorbing.
Two hundred years ago, he’d have been a general leading armies into battle.But now?
Now he wore a tailored jacket and didn’t need a sword.His words cut sharper than steel.
Jemma knew what came next.
Mark stood as they rounded the cubicle maze.He straightened to his full height, lips curled in a familiar sneer.His eyes narrowed.He was about to say something—probably something degrading, probably loud enough for the entire team to hear.
But then he caught a glimpse of Saif’s face.
Whatever Mark had been about to say evaporated.His mouth snapped shut.A rare flicker of instinct warned him that the man beside Jemma wasn’t someone to provoke.
Still, Mark had never known when to back down.
“You’re late,” he barked, puffing up again.
Jemma felt Saif tense beside her, and for a moment, she couldn’t understand why.
He wasn’t supposed to care.
Not anymore.
Not after everything that had happened, everything she hadn’t told him.But the quiet fury radiating off his broad frame said otherwise.
Mark’s harsh tone barely registered in her ears—it was background noise by now.She responded automatically, her voice soft and practiced.“I was here on time,” she said, keeping her tone neutral, placating.The goal was always the same: don’t provoke him.
She walked to her desk, calmly slid her tote into the drawer, locked it, and picked up her notebook.Then she turned to face the man who technically signed her paychecks.
“You missed this morning’s meetings,” Mark barked.“You’ll need to stay late to make up the time.”
She didn’t flinch, didn’t react.It was the same song and dance.
But she could practically feel Saif seethe beside her.
Mark finally turned to acknowledge the man towering beside her, and she almost laughed at the ridiculousness of it.This was it—Mark’s pathetic attempt to reassert his dominance.
He puffed out his chest like a rooster on steroids.The posture.The tone.The intentional delay in acknowledging Saif, as if that would diminish the obvious alpha energy next to her.Tiny Dick Energy, she thought, trying not to smirk.
Saif hadn’t even opened his mouth, and already Mark looked like a knockoff stuffed into a wrinkled suit.
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing outright.Saif looked like he could walk onto the cover of GQ without breaking stride.Mark, on the other hand, had a gut that hung over his belt, even though he tried to hide it with a jacket.His shoulders sagged under cheap padding, and without that jacket?He’d vanish into himself.
And then there was the hair.
Or the absence of it.
Saif’s thick dark hair was trimmed neatly, his dark eyes alert and cutting.Mark’s receding hairline looked like it had waved the white flag years ago, and his bloodshot eyes hinted at more bourbon than sleep.
“I’m Mark Sinstack,” he announced with artificial bravado, stepping forward with an outstretched hand.“Are you one of Jemma’s projects?”
Saif didn’t take the hand.
Didn’t even look at it.
Jemma winced.Sheknewthat gesture would make Mark combust internally.
“We should speak in private,” Saif said coolly, brushing past him like he wasn’t even worth the effort.“Jemma, you should be part of this conversation, too.”
