His voice came from behind me — low, controlled, carrying that particular resonance that seemed specifically engineered to bypass my rational brain. Cedar and leather reached me half a second before the words did. I turned slowly, composing my features into something I hoped resembled professional detachment.
“Mr. Laurent.”
“Back to formalities.” One dark eyebrow arched. “Interesting choice.”
“Consistent choice.” I kept my voice even. “Nothing has changed since my office visit.”
“Hasn’t it?” He stepped closer — not quite invading my space, but close enough that I was aware of every inch between us. “Because I’ve been thinking about what you said when you left. I can’t think clearly around you. It’s been occupying a significant amount of my own thinking.”
“Then we’re both wasting mental bandwidth we could be spending elsewhere.”
“Or we’re both avoiding an obvious conclusion.”
“The obvious conclusion being what, exactly?”
His eyes held mine. “That avoiding each other isn’t working.”
I took a deliberate sip of champagne and didn’t answer, because he wasn’t wrong and we both knew it and giving him the satisfaction of agreeing wasn’t something I was prepared to do in a room full of people who’d print whatever they saw.
“We should talk,” he said. “Somewhere more private.”
“We’re talking now.”
“About the investigation. About what happens next.” He paused, those gray eyes steady on mine. “There are things you don’t know, Em. Things that could change everything.”
The use of my name — the one he’d known before I’d known his — did something I refused to examine. “If you’re trying to intimidate me into dropping the story?—”
“I’m trying to propose an alliance.”
That stopped me. “An alliance.”
“Temporary. Mutually beneficial.” He took a sip of his drink, the signet ring catching the light. “You have questions about my project. I have information that could answer them. But there are also parties involved who would prefer those answers never come to light.”
“Parties who work for you.”
“Parties who work within my organization.” He said it with quiet precision. “There’s a difference. I didn’t authorize what happened with the foundation work. I didn’t approve the cost-cutting measures that led to the code violations. And I certainly didn’t arrange for a city inspector to receive a very expensive boat in exchange for his cooperation.”
I stared at him. “You expect me to believe you had no idea what was happening in your own company.”
“I expect you to consider the possibility that I’m not the villain you’ve decided I am.” His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “I’m proposing a formal review. Full access to internal documents. Interviews with relevant personnel. In exchange, you sign an NDA covering proprietary information unrelated to the investigation.”
“You want me to sign a contract.”
“I want us both protected. You get the access you need to verify your story. I get assurance that competitive secrets stay out of the Tribune’s business section.” He set his glass down. “It’s cleaner this way.”
Cleaner. As if anything about this situation could be called clean. As if we hadn’t stood on opposite sides of his desk two days ago with the air between us pulled taut as a wire, both of us choosing not to close the remaining distance and neither of us entirely at peace with that choice.
“And if I refuse?”
Something shifted in his posture — a stillness that was somehow more dangerous than movement. “Then we continue as adversaries. My legal team buries you in subpoenas and cease-and-desist letters. Your editor gets pressure from the parent company that I happen to partially own.” His voice was quiet, controlled, and completely without bluster. “The story dies, your career takes a hit, and we both pretend we haven’t been thinking about each other every hour since you walked out of my office.”
Arrogant. Accurate. Infuriating in exactly equal measure.
“I need time to consider.”
“Take it.” He reached into his jacket and withdrew a card — heavy cream stock, embossed lettering, because of course. His fingers brushed mine as I took it. The contact lasted two seconds. My skin remembered it for considerably longer. “My direct line. When you’re ready to discuss terms.”
“This doesn’t change anything,” I said. “Between us.”
