Fear—real fear—because she understands what my presence means even if she doesn’t understand why.
And as she stands there with her breasts right there in the open, eyes wide and glittering under the suite lights, my anger rises higher, heavier, and I let it settle in my bones where it belongs.
Her mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
For half a second, she just stares at me like her mind is trying to catch up to what her eyes are seeing, and I can see the exact moment everything tilts for her.
I don’t give her time to find her balance.
I step forward, anger riding my spine like a blade.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
My voice comes out harsh. I know it does. I hear it scrape the air between us.
She flinches.
Of course she does. She’s never seen me like this. In the office, I keep my temper leashed. I keep my tone even. I don’t raise my voice because raising my voice is losing control, and I don’t do that in front of people.
But this isn’t the office.
This is a suite with bolted windows and a guard outside the door, and my assistant in white fabric that barely qualifies as clothing, looking like she’s about to be swallowed whole by the consequences of a stupid decision.
“Mr. Conti—” she tries, voice thin at first. Then she swallows and forces it steadier. “Sir. What are you doing here?”
My laugh is short and humorless. “That’s what you want to ask me?”
She blinks. “Yes, sir. What’s going on? I thou—” Her eyes flicker to the door and back to me.
I take another step.
“You stood on a stage in a room full of men who were bidding on you like you were a prime piece of meat,” I say, each word clipped.
Her lips part again. Still no words.
I can see the flicker behind her eyes. Shame. Anger. Something frantic that wants to become tears and refuses.
Then she gathers herself like she’s stitching her courage together with shaking hands.
“What are you doing here?” she asks again, voice tighter now.
“Stopping you from doing something fucking stupid,” I snap.
That snaps her out of her shock. Her chin lifts. Her spine straightens.
It does exactly what it shouldn’t do—pulls her posture up and forward, makes her chest rise with the breath she drags in, makes it impossible not to notice how exposed she is, the dark circles beneath the white fabric.
I keep my eyes on her face.
Not because it’s easy. Because it’s necessary.
“I’m not stupid,” she says, cold, and it’s a good attempt. But not good enough. “What I do is none of your—”
“None of my business?” The words come out low, dangerous. “You work for me.”
Her jaw sets. “I workforyou. I don’tbelongto you.”
