An hour later I was crossing Falkirk's lobby, each step sending a pulse through me—echoes of Damien's mouth, his fingers, the way he'd made me come twice before letting me leave.
The afterglow lasted exactly twelve seconds.
Nathan stood by the elevator, arms crossed, that familiar smirk already in place.
"Morning, Emma."
"Ms. Sinclair," I corrected coolly, not bothering to hide my disdain.
He rolled his eyes. "Are you ever going to let that go?"
"It's a matter of respect, Mr. Bell."
He said nothing—but he didn't have to. The dismissal in his expression said it all.
That was the core of it, wasn't it? He didn't respect me. Never had. Never intended to.
The elevator doors opened and we both stepped inside. The metal box shrank around me, thick with the smell of old cologne and cigarettes.
He glanced down at me. "I'm looking forward to our meeting this morning. We have quite a few topics to cover."
"Like what?" I asked flatly, not expecting anything useful.
His eyes gleamed. "I don't want to ruin the surprise... Emma."
Dread settled beneath my skin as I followed him down Falkirk's gleaming hallway. Past curated art, photos of Damien shaking hands with executives and politicians.
The same powerful hands that had been in every crevice of my body. That had left marks of strength and beauty across my skin.
I wrapped that thought around myself and kept walking.
"Ladies first," Nathan drawled, swinging his office door wide.
I stepped inside—and immediately wished I hadn't.
His office was a reflection of him. The air reeked of stale cigars and self-importance. Photos of himself on yachts, girls young enough to still carry high school softness. Stacks of disheveled paperwork littered every surface. He swiped a pile off a chair, clearing me a seat.
"So," he started, taking his own seat, "I'd like to cover a few topics that we'll be focusing on over these next thirty days."
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, teeth grinding with the effort.
He ticked them off on his fingers. "Executive performance guidance." A pause, his gaze dropping to the sensible—high-necklined—blouse Damien had probably chosen for this exact reason. "Professional image refinement." Another tick. "Stakeholder relationship management."
His smile widened.
"Among others."
"Let's begin with executive performance," he said, flipping open a folder on his desk. "I've had a chance to review your leadership style at Elion, and I have a few... observations."
I said nothing. Waited.
"You're direct. Decisive." He said the words like they were diagnoses. "Which works in certain environments. But here at Falkirk, we value a more collaborative approach. Particularly from executives in visible positions."
Visible positions. Translation: women.
"Your tone in meetings can come across as—" He waved a hand, searching for the word. "Abrasive. Some board members have mentioned feeling... challenged."
"They were being challenged," I said flatly. "That's the point of strategic discussion."
