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“And yours.”

“And mine.” She turns back to her screen.

I came back to my desk three times tonight to leave and didn’t. My jacket is off. My sleeves are rolled up. I’ve read the same paragraph of the security audit eleven times.

Because I can’t stop thinking about her face when she turned around in that hallway. That expression wasn’t for a client. It was for no one. I’ve worn it myself, in my father’s study, when I was twelve.

I stand up. She tenses when she hears my chair roll back, the way people in this building always tense. Except when I reach the table and plant my hands on it beside her laptop, she doesn’t shrink. She turns and glares up at me like I’m the one invading her territory.

“We can’t keep doing this,” I say.

“Then find the janitor yourself.”

“That’s not what I mean.” I lower my voice. “You think I don’t notice the way you look at me? The way you go still every time I walk behind your chair? I can’t think about my own company because I’m wondering if you’re wearing that black lace again under your blouse.”

Her lips part. “That’s highly unprofessional.”

“It’s torture.”

I reach out and run my thumb along her jaw. I do it slowly, the way I did in the suite, so she can stop me.

She doesn’t stop me. She tilts her head into my palm, and her eyes flutter closed.

“You said you could handle it,” she whispers.

“I lied.”

When I kiss her, it isn’t soft. It’s a collision nine days in the making. She grabs my shirt with both hands and pulls me down, and I lift her onto the table. Papers scatter. Her notebook hits the carpet. Lightning cracks over the city, and the whole room flashes white.

She kisses like she argues. I’d forgotten. I hadn’t forgotten at all.

When I finally pull back, we’re both breathing hard. I rest my forehead against hers.

“No,” I say. “Not like this. Not in this office, and not with this much of a mess.”

She sits on the edge of the table with her skirt hiked up and her hair coming loose, flushed and furious and beautiful. “You’re right. This is a disaster waiting to happen. We need to keep this professional. If anyone finds out⁠—”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” I step back and make myself cross my arms. “I’m saying that whatever happens next, you decide it. Not me. And you need to hear this part clearly, Isabella. Your contract has nothing to do with this. Say no tonight, and nothing about your work changes. Not one signature. Not one veto.”

She stares at me. “You’d put that in writing?”

“If you want it in writing, it’ll be on your desk by morning.”

The flush spreads down her throat.

I watch her think. I can see the argument happening behind her eyes: the part of her that waited years, the part that walked out of my suite before dawn without a word, the part that just handed her mother money she doesn’t have because saying no hurt more.

“I don’t need it in writing,” she says at last. “I need you to mean it.”

“I mean it.”

She slides off the table and straightens her skirt. She won’t negotiate with her skirt around her thighs. I respect that more than I’ll ever tell her.

“Then here’s what I want,” she says. “Something physical. No emotions, no expectations. We get this out of our systems, we stop staring at each other across conference tables, and we both get back to saving our companies.”

It’s the thing I’ve wanted for nine days, coming out of her mouth, on her terms. I don’t say a word. I let it be hers.

“And there are rules,” she adds.