I spend the next hour trying to fix the email disaster.Every message I send now requires manual approval, and I have to explain to three different department heads why they received detailed analyses of extinct whale species attached with the quarterly reports they were expecting.
The whole time, Eve sits at her desk like a statue.Professional.Polite.Completely fucking irritating.
When Joshua stops by her desk to ask about the Serastra timeline, she gives him a bright smile and launches into a detailed explanation about vendor confirmations and timeline adjustments.Full sentences.Animated hand gestures.The works.
When Flora asks about the catering arrangements, Eve’s response is warm and thorough, complete with suggestions for dietary accommodations.
When Steven brings up concerns about the budget, she leans forward attentively, nodding and taking notes, offering solutions with that sharp intelligence that usually drives me crazy.
But when I clear my throat and ask if she’s reviewed the latest graphics proofs, she doesn’t even look up from her screen.Just slides a folder across her desk in my general direction and says, “Fine.”
One word.No eye contact.No explanation.
I catch Joshua glancing between us, his brow furrowed with curiosity.After watching Eve chat easily with everyone else while giving me the arctic treatment, he sidles over to my desk.
“Dude,” he whispers, leaning down to pretend he’s looking at my screen.“What the hell did you say to Eve?”
“Nothing,” I mutter, not taking my eyes off my computer.
“Nothing?”Joshua’s voice drops even lower.“Man, when Eve gets like this—but only with one specific person—that means they really fucked up.Like, personally pissed her off bad.”
I glance over at her again.She’s laughing at something Flora just said, her whole face lighting up with genuine amusement.Then her gaze accidentally meets mine for a split second, and the warmth disappears like someone flipped a switch.She looks away immediately, her expression going carefully blank.
“It’s nothing,” I repeat, but the words feel hollow.Joshua gives me a look that clearly says he doesn’t believe me, but he backs off.
The rest of the afternoon is torture.I watch her be warm and engaging with literally everyone else in the office while treating me like I’m invisible.When the maintenance guy comes around to fix her squeaky chair, she chats with him about his daughter’s soccer team.When the intern brings her coffee around, she thanks him with genuine appreciation and asks about his classes.
But when I try to hand her a file she needs for the campaign?She takes it without looking at me and says thanks in the same tone you use to dismiss a waiter.
By four o’clock, I can’t take it anymore.
“Eve,” I say, standing up from my desk.“Can we?—”
She stands, too, smoothing down her skirt.“I need to make copies,” she announces to the room in general, and walks out.
Just like that.Doesn’t even acknowledge I was speaking.
I stare after her, my jaw clenched so tight I’m surprised my teeth don’t crack.Around me, the office continues buzzing with normal conversation and productivity, but I feel like I’m in some kind of bubble where Eve Lopez has decided I don’t exist.
Did I cross a line?In the stairwell, when I had her pressed against that wall, when I kissed her like I had every right to?—
Fuck.
Maybe I did.Maybe pushing her like that, cornering her, was too much.Even if she kissed me back, even if she was just as into it as I was, maybe afterward she realized how fucked up the whole situation was.
I try again when she comes back, attempting casual conversation about the campaign timeline, but she just nods and gives me clipped, professional responses while continuing to chat and laugh with everyone else.
By five-thirty, I’m ready to grab her and shake some sense into her, but I have to leave for my dinner with Zeeshan Rogan.I should be focused on that.On saving the launch event that’s hanging by a thread, on proving to Iris and the board that we can still pull off this heritage marketing campaign, on making sure the ‘Legacy Refined’ concept doesn’t die.
Instead, all I can think about is how Eve smiled at the fucking maintenance guy while acting like I was a piece of furniture.
“I’m leaving then,” I tell Eve as I gather my things.
She just nods.Not even a glance at me.It shouldn’t bother me.I shouldn’t care.But it gnaws at me.
I arrive at the Vivan Hotel a few minutes earlier than planned, handing my keys to the valet.This is one of those places where the food is art and costs more than most people’s rent.I walk past exquisite sculptures and a water feature, a blend of modern minimalism and more traditional pomp, and as I hand my jacket to the coat check, I look around.I spot Rogan already waiting at our table, a distinguished man in his sixties with weathered hands and the kind of quiet authority you earn from decades of building yachts for the world’s elites.
“Mr.Wilder,” he greets me with a firm handshake as I’m shown to the table.“I hear you wanted to meet me.”
