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The comment should annoy me. I know how to do this. I know how to lead and conduct interviews. I’m the fucking COO of a multinational corporation. If anyone else had said it, I would have given them a taste of that COO authority.

But instead, to my surprise, Isabella’s gentle teasing makes me chuckle. And when she smiles, the memory of the café the other day crashes over me.

I think of the way we just talked. The way we shared stories about my upbringing and her sisters, about my time backpacking through Europe with nothing but a map and a desire to leave who I was behind, about the yacht and beach bar jobs I took to survive during my years away, the odd jobs Isabella took to get herself through college.

I learned far more about Isabella Medina than I ever meant to, ever thought I wanted to. And yet, I haven’t felt that level of calm with anyone since those nights under the stars in the Pyrenees. It’s a dangerous feeling and a vulnerability I can’t afford.

I have to shut it down. I have to remember it’s just sex and nothing more, sex so goddamn good that it’s bleeding into my brain chemistry. That’s the only reason I’m feeling this way, because the sex is addictive, like a drug, and my body is entirely dependent on her lustful heat.

Sex. That’s all this is.

“It was all you,” I say, instead of spilling everything rushing through my head. “Your coaching, your damn PR shit.”

Isabella’s eyes flick away, then back to me, as she brushes away invisible dust on her skirt, a rare moment of bashfulness. “I just gave you the tools, Sebastian, and helped you find the human inside.”

“Own it, Isabella.” I step into her space, my voice dropping as I look into her eyes. “You’re good at what you do, just like you said. You’ve busted your ass to get to the top, no help, no connections, right? You’re always telling me how good you are, so own it.”

There is fire in her eyes as she looks back at me. She’s a professional who doesn’t take shit in the office, and yet, here she is, glowing, because I did a good job. I like this side of her, the one with the slight flush to her cheeks. It’s a quieter version, and I like it as much as I like the woman who can stare down a board of directors and make them squirm in their seats.

We stare at each other for another few heartbeats, the flush on her cheeks growing darker. She turns suddenly and says, “I’m going to get my things. I’ll be back, and then we can go. We need to do some prep before this interview goes live, so we can take advantage when public opinion starts to swing your way.”

Her heels tap quickly as she walks away, and I have to swallow down the urge to follow her and claim her as my own in front of all these people.

She’s not mine.

It’s only sex.

The set is still buzzing with activity, a blur of PAs and frantic interns. I wait by the stage door, away from the glare and the heat of the lights in a cool, quiet corner, where the sounds of the set are muffled.

“Did you see the way she was looking at him?”

I glance over to see two of my mid-level communication staffers standing around, cups of coffee in their hands.

“She’s a climber. She’s not coaching him; she’s riding her way to a corner office.”

There’s a snicker after the words, which are said with a blend of disrespect and what I can only guess is envy.

“Mr. King has gone soft—everyone is saying so. She thinks she’s a power player, but she’s just the flavor of the month in a nice suit.”

“I don’t get it. Unless he’s a closet chubby chaser.”

I feel the familiar cold, calculated stillness I always do right before I’m about to dismantle a competitor.

The two employees, a young man and a young woman whose faces I distantly recognize but whose names I’m unsure of, freeze when I step closer, their expressions going from smug to ashen in half a second.

“Mr. King,” the man stammers. “We were just⁠—”

“You were just demonstrating why you will never rise above your current, mediocre pay grade.” My voice is calm but final, and both of them wince.

I walk toward them, my presence filling the small space until they look like rabbits caught in the gaze of a predator.

“Ms. Medina is the reason this company’s public valuation is still hanging on. She is a senior executive who has more tactical brilliance in her pinky finger than you have in your entire department. To suggest that her position is anything other than earned is an insult to those who hired her.”

The look I give them makes it clear whom they’re insulting.

“More importantly, an attack on her judgment is an attack on my judgment. You suggested I’m distracted, which translates to saying I am incapable of recognizing talent and value unless it’s in my bed.”

“No, sir, I—” the young man stammers.