"We're closed for lunch," a voice calls from the back.
I ignore it, marching toward the office door at the rear of the shop. My heels strike the concrete floor with angry purpose. I need to look him in the eye. I need him to deny it. I need him to tell me that the way he held me this morning wasn't just a tactical maneuver.
I reach for the handle of the office door, but voices from inside stop me cold.
"It's risky, Chase." That’s Logan. The President. His voice is deep, authoritative.
"It's handled," Chase’s voice answers. The sound of it sends a phantom caress down my spine, but the words turn my blood to ice. "I’ve marked her, Logan. She’s mine. I broke her wide open in that cabin until she was screaming my name and begging for more. She isn't a threat anymore; she's an asset. I have her so drenched for me she’ll sign whatever I put in front of her."
"You sure about that? One night doesn't guarantee loyalty."
There’s a pause. I can picture Chase leaning back in that creaky leather chair, that cocky, predatory smirk on his face.
"She’s mine, Logan," Chase says, and this time, the possessiveness doesn't sound romantic. It sounds like ownership. Like he’s talking about a piece of territory he’s conquered. "I broke down her defenses. She’s not going to fight me. She’s going to help us get that building up. Trust me. I know which buttons to push."
I stumble back, my hand flying to my mouth to stifle a gasp.
I know which buttons to push.
It’s true. Every word Oswald said was true. Thepossessiveness, the intensity, the rush—it was all a game. A mission. I was the target, and he hit the bullseye. I feel like I’m going to throw up. I gave him everything. I let him see parts of me I’ve kept hidden for years—my need for control, my secret desire to lose it. And he used it against me to get a zoning permit for a motorcycle club.
Rage scorches the back of my throat, obliterating the nausea. I am not a victim. I am Cassandra Preston, and I have torn corporations apart with less ammunition than this. I don't storm in. A scorned lover would scream. I need to be the lawyer. I need to be cold, hard, and untouchable.
I smooth my blazer. I tighten the scarf until it feels like a noose. I compose my face into a mask of professional indifference. Then, I open the door.
Both men look up instantly. Logan leans against a filing cabinet, his massive arms crossed over a chest that looks like a barrel. Chase sits behind the desk, looking devastatingly handsome in a black t-shirt that strains against his biceps.
When he sees me, his face transforms. The arrogant mask drops, replaced by a look of genuine, blinding warmth. "Counselor."
He starts to rise, moving toward me with that predatory grace, reaching out as if to pull me into him. "I was just about to call you. I missed?—"
"Don't," I say.
The word is quiet, but it cracks like a whip. Chase stops, his hand hovering in mid-air. He frowns, his eyes narrowing as he scans my face, reading the tension in my jaw, the ice in my eyes.
"What's wrong?" he asks, his voice dropping an octave. "Did someone touch you?"
"Sit down, Mr. Gunnar," I say, using his surname like a shield.
Chase flinches. He looks at Logan, then back at me. "Cassandra, what the hell is this?"
"This is me, recusing myself from the conflict of interest," I say, walking into the room and placing my leather portfolio on the desk between us. I don't look at him. I focus on the wall behind him. "I received new information regarding the timeline of your Search and Rescue proposal. It appears the project was conceived after my arrival, specifically as a counter-measure to my injunction."
Chase’s jaw tightens. "Cassandra, listen to me?—"
"It's a brilliant legal strategy," I continue, cutting him off, my voice trembling slightly before I clamp down on it. "Create a sympathetic humanitarian front. Seduce the opposing counsel to ensure she doesn't dig too deep into the financials or the rushed blueprints. Neutralize the threat."
I finally look at him. His eyes are olive green, tumultuous, confused. Or maybe that’s just more acting.
"I heard you," I whisper, the mask slipping for a fraction of a second. "Just now. Through the door. You have me exactly where you want me? You know which buttons to push?"
Chase pales. He steps around the desk, ignoring my flinch. "You heard that out of context. I meant?—"
"I know what 'handled' means in your world, Chase," I snap, stepping back to keep distance between us. If he touches me, I’ll shatter. "It means you did your job. Congratulations. You're very good at it. You made me believe it. You made me believe you."
"None of this was a game," Chase growls, his temper flaring, the air in the room suddenly charged with violence. He stalks toward me, crowding my space, radiating heat and fury. "I never lied about wanting to bury myself in you until we both stopped breathing. I never faked the way my cock throbbed the second you walked into the room, or the way you soaked my hand when I touched you. You didn't just feel a 'touch,' Cassandra—you felt a claim. One that isn't going away."
"Was it?" I laugh, a harsh, brittle sound. "Or was it just the Enforcer securing the asset?"
