“I read about your BRCA2 vector design,” Violet says. “Aggressive—but the targeting is brilliant. Your team should be proud.”
Evelyn glows. Hollister smiles.
I nearly miss a breath.
She didn’t just impress them. She aligned with them. She speaks like she belongs at this table. Like this isn’t a role. Like she isn’t here because I asked her to be.
They edge closer when she talks. They trust her.
And for the first time, I don’t know if that helps me—or makes me irrelevant.
Hollister arms cross. “And what happens after the acquisition? We’ve seen this before. Funding comes in, people go out. Teams gutted. Data shelved. The name stamped onto something unrecognizable. If that’s the plan, we’re out.”
Violet lifts her chin. Calm. Certain.
“This doesn’t have to be a liquidation,” she says. “It doesn’t have to dismantle your people. Crimson has the resources to protect what you’ve built—if the acquisition is structured correctly. Your research continues. The only difference is you finally have the funding and insulation to do it right.”
What the fuck is she doing?
That wasn’t the plan. I didn’t authorize that. Didn’t promise it.
My jaw tightens until I taste blood. This isn’t defiance. It’s competence. And that is far more dangerous.
Hollister nods. Softens. I can see him folding.
I slip my hand under the table halfway through the main course, my anger still simmering though I won’t show it. I keep my face neutral, engaged—another attentive executive nodding along while deals soften around the edges.
Violet is mid-sentence, speaking smoothly about cross-functional research teams and collaborative oversight, when my fingers find the slit in her dress.
She doesn’t miss a beat.
I brush her inner thigh, slow. Deliberate. A reminder, not a request.
She lifts her wine glass. Takes a measured sip. Doesn’t flinch.
Good girl.
My fingers inch higher, teasing the edge of her panties. I feel heat through the silk—warm, damp, and unmistakable. She shifts just slightly, a near-imperceptible adjustment that opens her to me without drawing attention.
Evelyn is talking about their grandson’s school performance. Violet nods at all the right moments, smile polite, and posture perfect. If anyone is watching, they see poise. Control.
I circle her clit through the thin barrier of lace.
Her breath stutters. Just once. She recovers immediately.
Martin—Hollister’s CFO—flicks his gaze toward us. Catches the movement. The tension. He smirks, the corner of his mouth lifting like he’s in on a joke no one else noticed.
Violet’s cheeks flush, a slow bloom of color she can’t stop—but she doesn’t look away. Doesn’t move. She keeps talking like nothing is happening, like I’m not undoing her one nerve at a time.
I press harder.
Her nails dig into the underside of the table, fingers curling tight. I feel her tense, that slow climb, and the telltale tightening that says she’s right there—too close.
And I stop.
She turns to me then, finally, eyes flashing. The look she gives me could gut a man where he sits.
My mouth just brushes her ear. “Not here, Kitten.”
