"You can't—this is?—"
"Legal," I finish. "Entirely legal. My lawyers are extraordinarily thorough. You signed the preliminary paperwork three months ago when you were desperate for an emergency capital injection. You just didn't read the fine print regarding the conversion trigger. I suggest you hire better representation in the future. Now get out."
I don't raise my voice.
I don't need to.
Richard flees, stumbling over his own expensive shoes in his haste to reach the door, and I'm already turning back toward Romee, expecting to see relief, gratitude, maybe even that soft, vulnerable expression she had last night when I pinned her hands above her head and made her forget every single item on her meticulously organized itinerary.
Instead, I find fury.
Pure, incandescent, absolutely breathtaking fury.
Her small frame is practically vibrating with it, her hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at her sides, her dark eyes blazing with an emotion I've never seen directed at me before.
"What," she says, her voice dangerously quiet, "did you just do?"
I blink, genuinely confused by the reaction. "I solved your problem. Richard was exploiting you. Now he's gone. You're welcome."
"I'mwelcome?" Her voice rises sharply on the last word, and several of my executives—who had been pretending not to listen while absolutely listening—suddenly find urgent reasons to be anywhere else. "You bought my company without telling me? You fired my boss?—"
"Former boss," I correct. "And he fired you first."
"That's not the point!" She takes three rapid steps toward me, closing the distance until she has to crane her neck to maintain eye contact, and the fact that she's willing to get this close while this angry does something complicated to my chest. "You can't just—just swoop in and buy entire companies because you don't like how someone treated me! That's not how this works!"
"It's exactly how this works," I counter, my confusion deepening into defensive irritation. "I identified a problem. I deployed resources to eliminate that problem. That's basic strategic thinking."
"I'm not a problem to be solved, Thrall! I'm a person! A person who was handling her own situation until you decided to play corporate raider on my behalf!"
"You weren't handling it," I shoot back, my voice hardening. "You were enduring it. There's a significant difference. You spent three years letting that mediocre parasite take credit for your work while systematically destroying your confidence and your professional reputation. I simply accelerated the inevitable collapse and ensured you came out on top."
"I didn't ask you to do that!"
"You shouldn't have to ask!" The words come out rougher than I intend, frustration bleeding into my tone. "You defended yourself brilliantly, Romee. You stood up to him in front of witnesses and reclaimed your professional dignity. But he still had power over you. He could still damage your career, spread lies about your competence, poison your reputation in the industry. I removed that threat. Permanently."
"By making me your employee?" Her laugh is sharp and humorless. "By trapping me in another power dynamic where someone else controls my future? How is that better?"
I actually take a step backward, my hands coming up in an instinctive gesture of defense.
"That's not—I would never?—"
"Wouldn't you?" She's relentless now, advancing on me despite the ridiculous size difference, her finger jabbing toward my chest in an echo of Richard's earlier gesture, except when Romee does it, I actually feel it. "You've been trying to control this entire situation since you got here, Thrall. Ripping up itineraries, ordering me to eat, carrying me to your cabin, leaving notes telling me what to wear?—"
"You liked those things," I interrupt with a growl. “Don't pretend you didn't. You responded to every single one of them."
"That was different! That was—" She cuts herself off, her cheeks flushing, and I know exactly what she's remembering. The door. My hands. Her breathless surrender. "That was personal. This is my career. My independence. My entire professional life, and you just bought it like?—"
"Like I was protecting what's mine," I finish, the words coming from somewhere primal and possessive, and the second they leave my mouth, I know I've made a catastrophic tactical error.
Romee goes completely still, the kind of motionless that feels dangerous, like a predator recognizing a threat. Her entire body locks down, shoulders rigid, hands dropping to her sides. The anger that had been propelling her forward just moments ago evaporates, replaced by something far more devastating: a cold, crystalline clarity that settles over her features like winter frost.
"What's yours," she repeats, each word carefully enunciated and delivered with surgical precision. Her voice has flattened into something that sounds almost conversational, except for the lethal undertone running beneath it. "I see."
She takes a measured step backward, creating distance between us, and I feel the space yawn open like a chasm. Her eyes, usually so expressive, so full of fire and challenge, have gone dim and guarded, shuttered behind a professional mask Ihaven't seen her wear in days. It's like watching a door slam shut.
"Romee—" I start, my voice rougher than I intend, urgency creeping into my tone because I can feel something fracturing between us, something fundamental and irreplaceable beginning to crack.
"No." She holds up one hand, and the gesture is so commanding that I actually stop mid-sentence, my mouth closing with an audible click. "No. We're not doing this. I thought—last night, I thought maybe we had something real. Something based on actual respect and partnership. But this? This is just you deciding you own me because we slept together."
