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The click of her heels cuts through the noise. She weaves through cables and light stands like she was born on a set, and the crew parts for her. She’s wearing a charcoal skirt suit. It’s entirely professional, and my tie is suddenly trying to strangle me.

“There was an accident on Lex,” she says. “I ran the last three blocks.” She’s flushed, and her makeup has gone a little smoky. It’s an unwelcome reminder of the last time I saw her flushed like that.

“He won’t let me finish,” the makeup artist says, with the courage of a man who’s found a protector.

Isabella looks only at me. “Unless Mr. King would like to go on national television looking pale and sweaty, like a man with something to hide. Would you, Mr. King?”

The crew holds its breath. No one talks to me like that.

I sit down on the stool.

Aaron makes a strangled noise and has to turn around. I hear the makeup artist mutter, “Holy shit,” under his breath.

“Good,” Isabella says briskly. “Aaron, don’t let him move until he’s done.”

She walks away. I glare at the space where she was. Fucking woman.

Ten minutes later, she still isn’t back. I stalk through the chaos until I see a supply closet door propped open, light spilling out, and push it open without knocking.

She’s standing with her back to me. Her shoes are off, her stockings are draped over a shelf beside her jacket, and she’s in her skirt and a black lace camisole that clings in every place I’ve had my hands.

My mouth goes dry.

“What are you doing?”

She turns. Before I can step back, she closes the distance and reaches up to fix my tie. The black lace brushes against the swell of her breasts. My breath catches. She hears it. Her eyes snap to mine, and her lips part, and for one second, we’re back in the suite, and nothing else exists.

“Mr. King! Five minutes!”

We spring apart.

“I ran three blocks in this heat,” she hisses, shrugging into her jacket. “I’m cooling off so I don’t sweat through my blouse on camera. You came looking for me. Get out so I can put on my stockings.”

I slap my palm against the doorframe on my way out. It isn’t nearly as satisfying as I want it to be.

“Sebastian.”

Her hand catches my collar, smoothing it, one last adjustment to the tie. Her voice drops so only I can hear it.

“Stop clenching your jaw. Trust the prep. You’ve got this.”

I sit down under the lights, hot and bothered and completely off my game. The producer starts the countdown. I scan the crowd for her and can’t find her. Then she slips in behind a cameraman at the last second, and I’m still staring at her when the anchor’s voice fills my earpiece.

“…here to set the record straight is Sebastian King. Welcome, Mr. King.”

“I—thank you.” I’m stumbling. I can hear it. “Thank you for having me.”

“Mr. King, given the allegations, why should shareholders believe an internal review will change anything?”

The world goes fuzzy. My father’s voice snaps in my head: Focus, you fucking idiot.

Then I find her face behind the camera. She gives me one small, sharp nod.

I breathe. I pull the COO on like armor.

“Because this isn’t a review. It’s an overhaul,” I say, and my voice is steady now. “We’ve brought in outside eyes, not to rubber-stamp our past, but to help build our future. We’re acknowledging the friction, because that’s where growth happens.”

“Three weeks seems awfully short for answers.”