She's brilliant. She's always been brilliant, the kind of brilliant that doesn't just solve problems but anticipates them before they even materialize, that builds entire architectural frameworks where lesser planners would only see chaos. I've watched her work for years, and every single time she delivers something that exceeds expectations so thoroughly it makes everyone else's efforts look like amateur hour.
And now I'm about to completely destroy her professional boundaries by showing up at her apartment unannounced, like some kind of obsessive, boundary-violating tech CEO who can't take a hint or respect a woman's clearly stated need for space and distance.
The rational part of my mind, the part that built a multi-billion-dollar company through calculated decisions and disciplined restraint, is screaming that this is a catastrophic tactical error. That I should turn around, walk back to my car, and let this play out through proper channels like a normal, functioning human being.
I adjust my tie for the fourth time, my tusks catching the weak afternoon light as I shift my weight. The white gold caps feel heavier than usual. I smooth down the front of my custom-tailored charcoal suit, the fabric stretched taut across my chest, and then I press the buzzer for unit 3B with one massive finger.
The intercom crackles to life with a burst of static.
"Hello?" Her voice filters through the speaker, cautious and professional, completely devoid of any recognition.
Her voice sends a jolt of pure electricity straight through my chest. I haven't heard it in three weeks, and the sound of it makes my hands clench involuntarily against my sides.
"Romee. It's Thrall."
Long silence. I can practically hear her internal debate through the cheap plastic speaker, weighing her options between buzzing me in or telling me to leave.
"Why are you here?"
Professional. Guarded. Entirely devoid of the breathless vulnerability that had escaped her voice in my cabin that night, when her carefully constructed walls had finally crumbled. She's rebuilt them now, brick by brick, and they're higher than ever.
"Contract consultation. You submitted a proposal three weeks ago. I'm here to discuss the terms in detail, the specifics that require a face-to-face conversation, not some sterile email chain."
She shifts her weight, her jaw tightening. "You could have emailed. Or scheduled a call. Or literally used any of the dozen conventional methods of communication available to a man in your position."
"I could have," I agree, taking in the sight of her, the messy knot of hair, the defensive crossing of her arms, the way she's deliberately keeping the coffee table between us like a barricade. My lips quirk into that dark, amused drawl that I know drives her absolutely insane. "But I'm here instead, standing in your living room, taking up approximately sixty percent of your available oxygen. And you haven't thrown me out yet, which is interesting, considering how much you clearly want to."
Another silence, longer this time. Then the door buzzes, and I'm moving before she can change her mind, taking the stairs two at a time until I'm standing in front of her apartment door.
She opens it before I can knock.
The sight of her punches the air straight out of my lungs.
She's wearing black leggings and an oversized sweater that keeps sliding off one shoulder, her hair pulled into a messy knot on top of her head with what looks like a mechanical pencil stuckthrough it. No makeup, no tailored armor, no clipboard pressed against her chest like a shield.
She looks exhausted in a way that no amount of her usual polished armor could ever conceal, the kind of bone-deep tiredness that comes from weeks of managing impossible people and their impossible demands. But there's something else there too, beneath the fatigue, something that makes her look almost achingly beautiful in this unguarded moment. Her eyes are softer without the sharp edge of her boardroom gaze, her features stripped of their usual aggressive competence.
The possessive thought that crashes through me is
primal.Mine.
I shove it down violently, wrestling it back into whatever dark corner of my brain it crawled out of. Now is not the time for that kind of thinking. Not when she's standing there looking vulnerable and exhausted and completely unaware of how dangerous that combination is to my carefully maintained control. I straighten, to adopt the measured, professional tone that has served me well in countless boardrooms and investor meetings.
"May I come in?" I ask, and I'm impressed by how steady my voice sounds when everything inside me is clawing to cross that threshold and pull her against me.
She steps back wordlessly, gesturing me into the tiny apartment. I have to duck slightly to clear the doorframe, and once I'm inside, the space feels absurdly, almost comically small. Her entire living room would fit inside my executive cabin bathroom.
But it's clean, organized, efficient. Very Romee.
"You didn't need to come in person," she says, closing the door behind me and crossing her arms defensively. "I submitted the proposal through the proper channels. Your assistant said I'd hear back by Friday."
"You will." I pull a leather portfolio from my briefcase, setting it carefully on her kitchen table. "But I wanted to discuss an additional opportunity."
Her eyes narrow with immediate suspicion. "What kind of opportunity?"
"A service contract. Exclusive event planning partnership with Horde Tech for the next three years, covering all corporate events, shareholder meetings, product launches, and executive retreats globally."
I slide the contract across the table toward her with deliberate slowness, watching it glide across the polished surface. It's seventy-three pages long, thick, imposing, bound in cream-colored leather with the Horde Tech logo embossed in sharp silver lettering. Our legal team has spent the past two weeks meticulously drafting every clause, every contingency, every loophole I specifically instructed them to leave open in my favor. I know every word of it. I've read it approximately twelve times.
