Rorie Adams.
That woman called me a corporate vulture to my face and made it sound like a goddamn compliment.
She smelled like late nights, and jasmine, the ghost of a flower that only blooms when no one’s looking. And her skin tasted like cinnamon set on fire. I’d chase it until my lungs gave out.
I came home that night and took a cold shower, muttering half-formed curses into the tile like a man possessed. It’s been so fucking long since I’ve had someone under my hands, under my mouth, and I almost lost it.
One lick of that pulse point on her neck, and I was ready to rewrite every rule I ever made about keeping personal and professional separate.
I’m drawn to her. To her bite. Her burn. Her fucking righteousness. I love her fire. But Jesus, she’s going to have to get over this feud of ours eventually.
Still, she’s not wrong.
You poached my clients.
Your billion-dollar firm blew it up like it was just another line item.
That’s what she said. And yeah, we did. We moved fast. We were leaner. Smarter. That’s how the game is played.
But that wasn’t a game to her. That was months of sleepless nights and preparations. That was pride. That was her reputation.
And my firm turned it into collateral damage.
It’s been looping in my head since she said it. So I asked Rishi casually, in the car on the way home.
“Did we cut rates on the Laurel Group pitch?”
He blinked, frowned. “Not on my watch.”
I didn’t push it further. If Rishi doesn’t know about it, it means someone went around us. Undercut without telling the team. And whoever it was, it worked. We landed the account. The firm celebrated.
But something’s amiss. I can feel it. Her accusations don’t add up. Neither does the silence.
And now, I can’t stop thinking about her, standing there with her spine straight, chin lifted, and her voice shaking, not from fear, but from fury.
Rorie was right. We didn’t just win.
We took. Stole.
Whether Big Stream meant to or not, we made her collateral.
I rub the back of my neck, jaw clenched so tight it aches. I’ve been called worse than a vulture or a poacher. But the way she said it—like I wasn’t just winning—I was breaking something that mattered, it all lodged under my skin and hasn’t let go.
I’m a fixer by nature. I see broken things, and I want to put them back together. But this? Her?
She’s not mine to fix.
Still, I want to try.
My phone buzzes on the table.
Shelby Asher Cross Liaison.
Fucking great.Tammy probably slipped Shelby’s contact into my phone herself. Part of her “Preparedness is professional foreplay”philosophy. Love how she saved her name. That Tammy, always so detailed.
I brace myself.
Whatever Shelby’s about to say—it won’t be half as loud as the voice in my head whispering Rorie’s name.
