Then it’s gone.
But I saw it.
And God help me, I'd give anything to crack that perfect control wide open.
His gaze drifts back to the report. Not dismissive. Not impressed. Evaluating.
“That confidence,” he says, voice lower now, measured, “is either your greatest strength or your most expensive mistake.”
The words settle between us.
Three years I’ve worked for the devil himself. Three years of midnight revisions, canceled dates, and missing the season finale of The Bachelor because spreadsheets don’t watch themselves.
Three years of proving I belong in rooms built for men who inherited their last names instead of earning them.
Men who were handed power. I built mine from scratch.
And I'll be damned if I let some silver-fox Russian billionaire make me doubt myself now.
Silence builds. He shifts, the expensive fabric pulling taut across muscle that has no business existing on a CEO.
The scent of cedar and gunmetal drifts toward me.
It's obscene, really.
No man should look that good while simultaneously ruining my life.
It should be illegal.
There should be laws.
Meanwhile, my navy trousers are waging war against hips that refuse to apologize for existing.
Off the rack and on clearance. Optimistically labeled "modern fit," which is corporate speak for designed by someone who has never encountered an actual adult woman.
Curves that laugh at corporate dress codes and make older board members blink twice.
My hips are not subtle.
They never have been.
And they are mine.
I've made peace with my body.Mostly.
I sit straighter, smoothing the folder in front of me. The movement shifts my blouse against my chest, fabric pulling slightly.
His eyes flick down.
Just for a beat. But I catch it.
My pulse stutters.
Oh.
Oh no.
Was he checking me out?
