“Yes, ma’am.”
The line clicked.
I crossed the room, forcing air past the tightness in my ribs, and pressed the button that blurred the windows—watching the office behind the glass fade into a gentle gray haze as the privacy screen shuttered into place around me.
Damien was coming here.
To this building.
To me.
And I wasn’t ready.
Not for him.
Not for the look I knew he’d bring with him.
I steadied my hands on the windowsill.
“Okay,” I whispered to no one. To myself. To the mess waiting outside my door.
The muffled hum of voices in the corridor faded as the unmistakable sound of his footsteps approached. Five minutes. That was all it took for him to get here after our call.
Fucking psychopath.
“Sarah,” Damien greeted easily, like the world wasn’t burning down around us.
“Good morning Mr.Holt. Right this way.”
Knuckles rapped on the door. I unlocked it quickly, before retreating behind my desk.
“Ms. Sinclair, Mr. Holt to see you.”
His tall frame crossed the threshold, corporate polish wrapped around him like a costume—pleasant smile, shoulders relaxed, the perfect CEO arriving for a perfectly normal meeting.
“Thank you, Sarah,” I managed, rising to greet him as if we hadn’t woken up in the same bed this morning. “Mr.Holt.”
“Ms.Sinclair,” Damien replied smoothly, tone and posture pristine. “I’d like to discuss a few—”
The door clicked shut behind her.
His smile vanished, eyes cutting to mine with all the fury he’d been holding back for the hallway. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he hissed, dropping into the chair hard enough to shove it back an inch.
Heat rushed through me. “Like I told you on the phone. I’m running a goddamn company.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I told you to stay home.”
“And I told you to go fuck yourself.”
His hand lifted—just one finger—somewhere between disbelief and imminent detonation.
“You said ‘fuck my orders.’ Now you’re telling me to go fuck myself?” His voice was low, incredulous.
I stopped.
The anger still simmered—but beneath it was what I saw in him.
The hurt.
