"And what exactly do you do best?" the CEO asks, his tone suggesting he already knows the answer won't fit neatly into his personnel manual.
"Terrify people into cooperation," I say flatly. It's not a boast, it's a statement of fact, delivered with the same confidence I'd use to describe my height or my preferred breakfast food. I'vespent enough time in boardrooms to know that most corporate types respond better to straightforward honesty than to flowery job titles and carefully workshopped mission statements.
The CEO's mouth twitches. Almost a smile. Almost. He catches himself, smoothing his expression back into something more executive-appropriate. "That's not a job description."
"No," Orla interjects smoothly, stepping slightly to the side so she's positioned between us both, a calculated move, I notice, one that frames us as a unified front rather than opposing forces. "But it's a deliverable. And in this company, deliverables matter more than semantics."
"It is now." Orla taps her phone screen. "I drafted the proposal on the way up. Aggressive Negotiations handles disputes that can't be resolved through traditional methods. Hostile takeover negotiations. Union disputes. Vendor conflicts. Anything requiring physical presence and psychological intimidation."
"You drafted a full proposal in an elevator ride?"
"I optimized the template from our last departmental restructure." She swipes, then turns her cracked screen toward him. "All you have to do is approve it."
The CEO stares at the screen. Then at her. Then at me. I can see him calculating, weighing the risk against the reward. Men like him don't care about rules. They care about profit. And Orla just handed him a profit center wrapped in a compliance-friendly package.
"I'll need legal to review this."
"Legal already did." She swipes again. "I sent it to them before we came up. They responded three minutes ago. It's airtight."
I feel my eyebrows rise. She sent it to legal while we were in the elevator? While she was also drafting the proposal? How many things does this woman do simultaneously?
The CEO picks up his desk phone. Dials an extension. "Marjorie, pull the fraternization policy. I want an amendment on my desk by tomorrow morning."
He hangs up. Looks at us. "You have one quarter to prove this works. If productivity drops, if there's even one HR complaint, this whole thing shuts down. Understood?"
"Understood." Orla's voice is steady, but I can see her hand shaking slightly as she lowers her phone.
We did it. She did it.
The CEO waves us away. "Now get out of my office. And for God's sake, change your clothes before you come in tomorrow. You both look like you went swimming in the gutter."
We leave the office, and the elevator doors slide shut with a decisive metallic clang that seems to seal our fate. Orla immediately sags against the polished steel wall, her entire body going slack as if someone has cut the strings holding her upright. All the adrenaline that has been coursing through her veins for the past hour—sharpening her voice, straightening her spine, keeping her perfectly composed through that negotiation, drains out of her in one massive, shuddering exhale. Her shoulders drop. Her breathing becomes ragged.
"That was absolutely terrifying," she whispers, and there's something almost vulnerable in her voice now, stripped of its usual corporate armor. Her hand trembles as she reaches up to smooth her already-immaculate bob, a nervous gesture I've learned means her carefully constructed composure is hanging by a thread.
I can't help myself. I reach for her, pulling her against my front with enough force that she lets out a small, startled sound. She fits against me like she's been designed for this exact purpose, my broad frame a shelter for her sharp, tightly-wound intensity.
"You were incredible," I murmur into her hair, breathing in the familiar scent of rain-dampened silk and her expensive shampoo and something else entirely—the sharp, metallic tang of pure victory. "My fierce warrior. You conquered the Chieftain's lair and emerged victorious."
"I can't believe that worked." She's laughing now, the hysterical edge of relief making her shake. "I made up half of those statistics. Productivity isn't up two hundred percent."
"It's not?"
"It's up one hundred and eighty-seven percent. I rounded up for impact," she admits, her voice small and sheepish against my chest. I can feel her shoulders tensing, waiting for me to be angry, to call her out on the lie. But all I feel is a surge of pride so fierce it nearly knocks the wind out of me. My Orla, my perfectly controlled, by-the-book ice queen, just committed corporate fraud in front of the Chieftain himself. And she did it with such confidence that even I almost believed her.
I kiss her, hard and possessive, claiming her mouth in the middle of the elevator because I can. Because we don't have to hide anymore. Because she just negotiated our entire future with nothing but a cracked phone and sheer audacity.
The elevator dings with mechanical precision, announcing our arrival at the ground floor. The doors slide open with a pneumatic hiss, revealing the sterile marble lobby that suddenly feels like the finish line of a marathon. Without hesitation, I scoop Orla up into my arms, hoisting her against me like she's the spoils of a hard-won battle. She lets out a surprised yelp, her fingers scrabbling for purchase against my jacket, but she doesn't protest. I carry her out of the building with the swagger of a warrior claiming his prize, my footsteps echoing across the polished floors.
The security guard stationed behind his desk freezes mid-sip of his coffee, his eyes going wide as saucers as he watches uspass by. His mouth opens and closes like a confused fish. I can practically hear his thoughts, this is either a very public display of affection or a very public display of insanity. Possibly both.
"Congratulations on your promotion," I announce to him with absolute sincerity, not breaking stride as we barrel toward the exit.
Orla's head snaps up. "I didn't get promoted," she hisses, her cheeks flushing crimson.
I grin down at her, unable to contain my pride. "Not you, Spreadsheet Face. Me."
Outside, the rain has completely stopped. The streetlights reflect off puddles, turning the concrete into fractured mirrors. Orla wraps her arms around my neck, tucking her face against my shoulder.
