Page 65 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

I shift in my chair, grateful for the desk between us.

“That’s all, Ms. Dysart.” I swallow, trying to regain control. “Actually, one more thing. I’d like you to report to my office every day at five with an update on your progress.”

The words are out before I can think them through. Before I can consider the fact that I’m engineering a daily excuse to have her alone in my office, sitting across from me, close enough to study every detail of her face.

What are you doing? This is the opposite of ignoring her. This is the opposite of everything you said you were going to do.

Sophie blinks, surprise cutting through the anger. “Every day?”

“Every day,” I confirm, because apparently I’ve committed to this act of self-destruction. I hold her gaze steadily. “Do you have a problem with that?”

I can see it, the retort forming behind her lips, the argument building in her eyes. The real Sophie, straining against the leash, wanting to tell me exactly what she thinks of my micromanaging bullshit.

But she doesn’t.

“Fine,” she says, and the word comes out tight. She stands, smoothing her dress.

She turns toward the door, and my eyes drop to the line of her back. The way the cream fabric follows the curve of her spine, the flare of her hips, the⁠—

“And Ms. Dysart.”

She stops and turns, her hand still on the door handle, her body half-angled toward me, her eyes wary.

“Please follow the dress code.”

“The dress code?” she repeats, and I can hear it, the effort it takes to keep her voice level. The anger is right there, pressing against the surface, and I can practically see it vibrating beneath her skin. Her fingers tighten on the door handle, her knuckles going pale.

I should stop. I know I should stop. Every rational part of my brain is screaming at me to shut my mouth and let her leave.

But there’s something about seeing her angry, genuinely angry, that I can’t get enough of. It’s the only real emotion I’ve seen from her since the gala. The only proof that somewhere underneath all those layers of disguise, there’s a person who actually feels things.

I want to see more of it. I want to peel back every layer until there’s nothing left but the truth.

“Yes,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “I wouldn’t want people to get the wrong idea about your intentions for being here.”

The blush starts at her throat.

It rises slowly, creeping up her neck, spreading across her cheeks like watercolor bleeding into wet paper.

I stare at that blush, mesmerized. It might be the most honest thing I’ve ever seen from her.

“What I’m wearing,” she says, her voice carefully level, “is perfectly suitable for an office.”

I let my gaze travel slowly over her.

I know it’s just a dress. Perfectly appropriate, perfectly conservative, the sort of thing any woman might wear to work without a second thought.

But something has come over me, something reckless and self-destructive, and I can’t seem to stop myself.

“Ms. Dysart,” I say slowly, “that color... it almost looks like you’re not wearing anything at all.”

Her lips part.

For a full three seconds, she just stares at me. Shock first. Genuine, unfiltered shock that widens her eyes and parts her lips and makes her look, for just a moment, like the woman in my suite who leaned in and kissed me like the world was ending.

Then the anger hits.

I can see it build. A wave cresting behind her eyes, her jaw locking, her spine going rigid. She wants to snap at me. Wants to tell me exactly where I can shove my dress code and my daily meetings and my thinly veiled comments about her clothing.