Just stands.
Power that doesn’t need volume or movement to be felt.
He circles the table, predator-slow, and stops in front of me.
Too close. His thigh brushes my armrest. Heat sears through wool. His scent drowns me—cedar sharpened by leather, a faint metallic edge of gun oil, and dark amber that clings like expensive sin, the kind that lingers on skin after midnight decisions.
He’s now close enough that I feel the heat radiating off him.
"There's something else." My stomach sinks. Sasha's "else" means doom.
"A merger. AngelCorp and Dandelion Technologies."
For a second, I think I misheard him.
"Dandelion Technologies?" I repeat. "The same Dandelion that's spent the last two years positioning themselves as our primary competitor?"
"Yes."
No hesitation. No blink. Like he just asked me to order lunch.
I hold his stare. "That's not a merger. That's a declaration of war."
"No." His jaw tightens. "It's a hostile takeover. There's a difference."
"With all due respect, why hand something of this magnitude to me instead of the senior M&A team?"
His gaze drops. Brief. Measured. Back to my eyes.
"You prefer I give it to someone else?"
The air shifts.
"That's not what I'm saying. I'm asking why you're trusting me with what could be the biggest deal of the quarter."
His mouth curves. The bastard looks amused.
"I want the first draft on my desk by tomorrow morning. Don't be late."
I open my mouth to protest. To tell him that's impossible. That I haven't slept in three days. That I'm running on fumes and spite.
But he's already walking away, dismissing me with the kind of casual arrogance that makes my blood boil.
"Oh, and Miss Reese?"
I freeze halfway out of my chair.
He doesn't turn around. "This merger goes through, you'll have earned yourself another promotion."
My heart stutters.
"And if it doesn't?"
Now he turns. Those gray eyes lock onto mine with predatory focus.
"Then we'll discuss your future at AngelCorp."
The door clicks shut behind him.
