She stares down at the portfolio without moving, her arms still crossed defensively across her chest, that particular tension settling into her shoulders that tells me she already knows exactly what this is. Her voice, when she finally speaks my name, carries a note of exhausted resignation.
"Thrall," she says quietly, and there's warning in it.
"Read it first," I respond, keeping my tone measured and reasonable, the same tone I use in board meetings when I'm about to make a decision that will cost someone their bonus. Except this time, the only person I'm willing to lose money on is her. "You're intelligent enough to understand that jumping to conclusions wastes both our time."
"I don't need to read it to know exactly what this is," she snaps, finally meeting my eyes with that familiar flash of fire. "This is precisely the kind of interference I told you explicitlythat I didn't want. The kind where you use your money and your corporate leverage to?—"
"It's not interference. It's business." I keep my voice level, professional, even though every instinct expects me to cross the room and pin her against the wall until she stops being so stubborn. "You run an event planning company. I run a tech company that requires approximately forty-seven corporate events per year. This is a standard vendor relationship."
"There is nothing standard about this."
"Then read the contract and tell me specifically which terms you find objectionable."
She glares at me, her jaw set in that familiar stubborn line that makes me want to bite it. But she picks up the contract, flipping through the pages with sharp, efficient movements.
She reads, tracking the way her eyebrows gradually climb higher on her forehead as she processes the terms. The payment structure. The creative control clauses. The liability protections. The termination rights.
"This is ridiculous," she says finally, looking up at me with something between fury and disbelief. "These terms are completely weighted in my favor. You're offering me more money than most agencies make in five years, with full creative control and minimal oversight. And the termination clause lets me walk away at any point with thirty days' notice while you're locked in for the full three years unless I breach contract."
"Yes," I confirm, my voice coming out low and measured, the kind of tone that usually makes boardrooms fall silent and listen.
"Why?" She leans forward slightly, her dark eyes narrowing with the intensity of someone who has learned to interrogate every detail, every inconsistency. It's one of the things I respect most about her, she doesn't accept surface-level answers, not from anyone, certainly not from me.
I regard her for a long moment, letting my gaze settle on her face. The question deserves more than corporate speak, more than the polished deflection I'd normally deploy. "Because you're the best event planner I've encountered in fifteen years of running this company," I say, each word deliberate and unhurried. "And I pay appropriately for quality. Always have. It's not sentiment, it's sound business practice. I don't hire mediocrity, and I don't underpay for excellence. You fall into neither category."
My tusks catch the light as I speak, as she tracks the movement with those sharp, assessing eyes. She's waiting for the real answer, the one underneath the logic. The one I'm not quite ready to give her yet, even though we both know it's there.
"Thrall." She sets the contract down, pressing her palms flat against the table. "This isn't a fair deal. This is you trying to fund my business under the guise of a contract."
"This is me trying to hire the most competent event planner I've ever encountered to handle my company's substantial event needs." I step closer, unable to maintain the professional distance any longer. "Everything in that contract is defensible from a business perspective. My board already approved it. Legal vetted it. This is legitimate."
"It's too much."
The objection hangs between us, small and defiant. She's gripping the contract like it might burn her.
"You're worth it."
The words come out rougher than I intended, weighted with far too much meaning for what should be a simple business transaction. The rumble of it fills the small space of her kitchen, vibrating through the air between us like something almost tangible.
Her breath catches, a sharp intake that's audible in the sudden quiet. The pulse in her throat jumps, the delicate flutterof it betraying everything her stubborn expression refuses to admit. It's a tell, one of the few she can't quite control around me, and I've become pathetically attuned to every variation of it. Every time that pulse quickens, I know I've landed exactly where I intended.
"I need to do this on my own terms," she says quietly. "I need to know that I built this myself, that I earned every client and every contract through my own skills and reputation. Not because I slept with a CEO who decided to play savior."
The implication that what happened between us was nothing more than sex, nothing more than some hollow transaction to be filed away and forgotten, makes my jaw clench with a fury that surprises even me. I can feel my teeth grinding together, the sharp pressure of it radiating through my skull. It's an almost primal reaction, one that belongs more to the feral version of myself that I've spent years burying beneath three-piece suits and quarterly earnings reports.
"That contract has nothing to do with what happened in my cabin. Not a single line item. Not a single clause."
"Doesn't it?" She challenges me, her dark eyes searching mine with that infuriating combination of defiance and vulnerability that makes my chest feel too tight.
"No." I move closer, crowding into her space until she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. "What happened in my cabin was personal. This is business. I'm fully capable of separating the two."
"Are you?" She doesn't back down, doesn't retreat, even with my massive frame looming over her tiny kitchen. "Because from where I'm standing, this looks like you trying to take care of me whether I want you to or not."
"Maybe I am." The admission comes out as a low rumble. "But the terms of that contract are still legitimate, still fair froma business perspective, and still an opportunity that any rational businessperson would accept."
"Any rational businessperson who wasn't sleeping with the client," she counters, her voice sharp with the kind of precision that tells me she's been rehearsing this argument in her head since the moment I slid that contract across her desk.
"We're not sleeping together anymore." The words come out harder than I intend, each syllable deliberately clipped and final. "You made that abundantly clear when you left my cabin three days ago. When you walked out of my life and decided that whatever was happening between us was... expendable."
