Page 28

Emma stared at the heavy brass faucet of the deep kitchen sink. She knew the quirks of The Amber House's nineteenth-century gravity-fed plumbing better than she knew her own name.

A wicked, petty smile spread across Emma’s face.

Alphabetize my cardamom, will you?

Emma walked over to the sink, gripped the red hot-water valve, and wrenched it open to full blast.

Scalding water roared into the ceramic basin, instantly starving the upstairs line.

It took less than four seconds. A sharp, muffled gasp echoed through the floorboards above, followed immediately by the violent screech of the shower tap being slammed shut.

Emma bit her knuckle, her shoulders shaking with silent glee as she casually grabbed a clean saucepan and pretended to scrub it under the steaming torrent.

Thirty seconds later, the kitchen door didn't just open—it nearly came off its hinges.

"Are you out of your mind?!"

Emma turned around, a smug excuse about washing dishes already loaded on her tongue—and her brain completely short-circuited.

Victoria was standing in the doorway, wrapped in nothing but a single white bath sheet.

She hadn't bothered to put on a robe. Her dark hair was slicked back, dripping cold water down the bare, elegant line of her neck and across her collarbones. Her skin was flushed pink from the sudden shock of the ice water, and below the knotted hem of the towel, her legs were completely bare—long, toned, and glistening with moisture. The exact same legs that, less than a week ago, had been locked like a vise around Emma’s waist in the dark.

Emma’s mouth went bone-dry. Her hand froze on the sponge, the hot water still roaring uselessly into the sink behind her.

"The hot water cut out completely," Victoria hissed, stepping onto the kitchen tiles on bare feet, her dark eyes blazing with murderous fury. "It turned to liquid ice in the middle of my rinse because you have the main valve wide open!"

Emma couldn't speak. Her gaze was glued to a single droplet of water sliding slowly down the center of Victoria’s chest, disappearing beneath the tight white terrycloth. The memory of how that skin tasted hit her so hard her knees actually wobbled.

"I—the pan," Emma croaked out, her voice jumping an entire octave. She held up the completely spotless saucepan like a shield. "Baked-on grease. Requires maximum thermal pressure. Old pipes."

Victoria’s eyes narrowed. She followed Emma’s stare down to the edge of her towel, then slowly raised her gaze back up to Emma’s burning red face.

The anger in Victoria’s posture shifted instantly. She didn't pull the towel higher. Instead, she straightened her spine, letting the wet fabric cling a bit tighter to her hips, a slow, lethal realization dawning in her dark eyes. Emma’s prank had just spectacularly backfired.

"Turn the tap off, Emma," Victoria murmured, her voice dropping into a low, dangerous purr that sent a shiver straight down Emma's spine. "Before you scald yourself."

Emma blindly reached behind her back and twisted the brass valve shut, nearly dropping the pan in the process.

Victoria held her gaze for one more agonizing beat, a triumphant smirk ghosting across her mouth, before she turned on her bare heel and walked unhurriedly back upstairs.

Emma let out a ragged breath, pressing her hands against her hot cheeks. Okay. That was a tactical disaster.

She dumped butter, sugar, and lemon zest into a glass bowl, trying to whisk away the image of Victoria half-naked in her kitchen.

Twenty minutes later, she could hear Victoria’s low voice drifting through the ceiling from the room directly above, smooth and authoritative, discussing million-dollar margins on her video call.

Still rattled, and refusing to let Victoria have the last word twice in one hour, Emma looked at the flashing green lights of the ancient Wi-Fi router sitting on the kitchen shelf.

A wicked, vindictive smile spread across Emma's face.

She walked over to the shelf, reached behind the dusty plastic box, and yanked the power cord straight out of the wall.

The authoritative voice from the ceiling above stopped instantly.

Ten seconds later, the rapid, furious thud of footsteps pounded down the stairs. The kitchen door flew open. Victoria stood in the doorway, looking absolutely murderous. She had changed into a pair of black trousers and a dark shirt that clung to her in a way that should have been illegal. Her hair was dry, her makeup flawless, but her eyes were practically burning a hole through Emma's skull.

"The internet just dropped," Victoria hissed, her voice vibrating with barely contained rage. "I am in the middle of a quarter-million-dollar acquisition call."