"Sometimes illusions are necessary," she says quietly."They make difficult truths easier to bear."
The comment strikes closer to home than she likely intended."Like the illusion that family loyalty means something?"
She turns to face me."Is that what's bothering you?That Richard betrayed your loyalty?"
"Among other things."
"He didn't just betray you, Callum.He betrayed the company.All the employees who depend on it.The clients who trust it."Her voice remains gentle despite the hard truth in her words."And now he's actively trying to sabotage the MacTavish acquisition."
"If the evidence proves conclusive," I hedge, still clinging to that last thread of doubt.
"Why is it so hard for you to accept his guilt?"The question holds no judgment, only genuine curiosity."After everything he's done—even to me personally—why do you still want to believe the best of him?"
I stare into my whisky, searching for an answer I'm not sure I have."I don't know."
"I think you do."She steps closer, until I can smell the subtle citrus scent of her perfume."I think you protect Richard because it's what you've always done.Because at some point, it became who you are rather than what you do."
Her insight is uncomfortably accurate, stirring something deep and unexamined within me.
I set down my glass, needing both hands free for what comes next.
"Perhaps," I concede, reaching for her."But tonight, I don't want to talk about Richard."
She allows herself to be drawn closer."What do you want to talk about?"
"Nothing at all."
The kiss begins tentatively, a delicate exploration that quickly deepens into something hungrier.
Unlike our previous encounters—my measured restraint in the hotel suite, the stolen moment in my study—this feels like surrender.
To what, I'm not entirely sure.
Her hands make quick work of my tie, then move to the buttons of my shirt with equal efficiency.
Mine find the zipper of her dress, easing it down her back in a slow, deliberate motion that makes her shiver against me.
"We shouldn't be doing this," she murmurs, even as she helps me shrug off my shirt.
"Absolutely not," I agree, fingers tracing the curve of her spine."Terrible idea."
“Abominable.”
“Abhorrent, even.”
We continue this litany of reasons to stop while systematically removing each other's clothing, the contradiction between words and actions almost comical if it weren't so charged with desire.
When she's finally laid beneath me on the king-sized bed, I take a moment just to look at her.
The warm olive skin, the soft curves, the unexpectedly delicate tattoos—one on her hip matching the tiny one at her wrist—that I hadn't noticed during our previous encounters.
"What is this?"I trace the small design with my fingertip—a pomegranate in simple, elegant lines.“I never did ask the first time I saw this on the inside of your wrist.”
"Armenian symbol of life and rebirth.”She watches my face."A reminder that surviving hard times means coming back stronger."
I lower my head to press my lips against the marking."And have you?Come back stronger?"
"Usually."Her voice catches as my mouth begins to move lower."Not always gracefully, but yes."
