Chapter 8
Liam
Iunwrap my chopsticks and open the sushi box on my desk. Three days in this office, and I’ve learned three things.
One: the coffee is of questionable quality.
Two: Roxy Moretti’s dismissals are a turn-on.
Three: She commands absolute loyalty.
She is very, very good at her job. I don’t like how much I admire that.
She moves through the office with effortless authority. No raised voice. No theatrics.
People pivot when she approaches. Conversations lower. Decisions get made.
She doesn’t look at me.
At one point, she assigned two analysts to a task I’d been reviewing earlier. They passed my office apologetically.
I watched her do it. I didn’t interrupt.
Getting closer to her is proving much harder than I anticipated. And yet, I’m glad I’m here.
I pick up a salmon roll and raise it to my mouth. I eat my lunch here every day, relishing the silence. Recharging. Avoiding. Thinking.
In my father’s office, people keep their heads down. It suits me.
Here, everyone is friendly. Unnecessarily. They are all chatty. Such a redundant infliction.
It makes me want to work from home every day.
My assistant has offered lunch reservations three times this week. I would rather fast.
The hum of voices rises before I see the cause.
The receptionist appears in the doorway, maneuvering a stainless-steel trolley stacked with trays. Salads. Sandwiches. Fruit bowls.
Something hot that smells aggressively social.
Behind her, a small crowd forms with the speed of a natural disaster.
“Team lunch!” she announces, far too cheerfully.
A guy from the analysts’ team smiles, grabbing a bagel. “Thank you for inviting us.”
Of course.
I close the lid of my sushi box with surgical calm and slide it aside.
People start drifting in. Analysts. Legal. Someone from compliance I haven’t learned to ignore yet.
They gather in clusters, perching on desks, leaning against door frames, speaking too loudly.
This is not lunch. This is a hostage situation.
I consider leaving when Roxy walks in. She doesn’t announce herself. She never does. She just… arrives.
As usual, her dreadlocks are twisted into a messy bun on top of her head, a pencil stabbed through it at an angle that looks accidental. Another pen follows. Two weapons. Balanced. Precise.
What isn’t balanced is how often my gaze drifts to her hair: part bun, part stationery holder. The casual way she stabs pens into her hair is endearing.
I have never used the word endearing before. Never had the need for it. Fuck.
The room subtly reorients toward her.
“Eat!” She claps her hands. “Thank you for this, Liam.” Her smile is blinding. And so very fake.
Chatter ripples through the room as people attack the trolley.
I don’t move.
Her gaze flicks to me for the first time all day.
Sharp. Assessing. Unimpressed.
Not stopping at the food cart, she crosses the room and sits on the other side of my desk.
Her smile still doesn’t reach her eyes. “Stone. You’re not allergic to people, are you?”
I set my chopsticks down carefully. “Only in large groups.”
She leans back and crosses one leg over the other. Her skirt rides up, baring her knees. I shift in my seat.
She is wearing red tights. A deterrent in theory. Ineffective in practice. Still, my gaze lingers on the smooth curve of her knee, betraying me.
“It’s only a small group.” Her voice is the epitome of innocence. “Team bonding.”
If I weren’t having an allergic reaction to the chatter, I might smile. She picks her weapons well, I’ll give her that.
“I fail to see how carbohydrates improve productivity.”
“You will.” She smiles. It’s polite. Controlled. Weaponized. “Grab a plate.”
“I have my lunch here.” I tap the chopsticks against the plastic lid.
“Yes, very monastic.” She glances pointedly at my abandoned sushi. “Not very team-focused. Especially since you invited everyone.”
I stand slowly. Not because she taunts me. Not because the team cares. Because sitting suddenly feels like conceding ground.
I take a plate.
“Careful.” She whispers behind me. “The lasagna is popular.”
“Noted,” I growl.
I move past her, aware of her presence in a way I refuse to analyze. Too close. Too warm. Too familiar already.
She watches me take food. Watches me choose the smallest possible portion.
“Living dangerously,” she murmurs.
“I see you’re playing it safe.” I extend the fork toward her. “You didn’t have anything.”
She blinks rapidly, her eyes darting between me and the offered food. The air between us thickens. The chatter fades.
Somewhere in my mind, I question what the hell I’m doing. It doesn’t stop me. I move the fork closer to her mouth.
“I’m not hungry.” She swallows.
“Not very team-focused. Especially since I invited you.”
Her fluster is endearing. There is that fucking word again.
She stares at me for a beat longer, and then she turns and grabs a small plate. “You didn’t.”
I chuckle. “Yet here you are.”
Her smile tightens. “Eat, Liam.”
She says my name like a challenge.
I comply.
This is not part of the plan.
The plan is proximity. Access. Information.
Not… banter. Not noticing the way her fingers drum once against her hip when she’s impatient.
Not the fact that she checks in on every single person in the room without hovering.
Leadership, not performance.
I respect that.
Very inconvenient. I came here to seduce. To manipulate. To extract what I need.
Instead, I’m pulled into a game. And I don’t even think we are playing by the same set of rules. And definitely not with the same objective.
She takes her plate and moves on, dispensing comments and instructions with the efficiency of a general disguised as a host.
When the room finally thins, I’m left with an empty plate and an uncomfortable truth settling in my chest.
This wasn’t a prank.
This was a flex.
And I felt it. And perhaps even enjoyed it.
The boardroom smells like polished wood and expensive markers.
Glass walls. City beyond. Afternoon light cutting across the table at sharp angles.
Roxy stands at the head, tablet in hand, posture relaxed. Commanding without effort.
I sit halfway down the table. Not beside her. Not opposite. Close enough. Too close.
She’s outlining the regulatory timeline, voice even, precise. Dates. Dependencies. Risks.
Competence dressed in a kimono and thigh-high boots.
She gestures once, absently, and the pen in her hair shifts. It holds. Of course, it does.
“…Which puts approval no earlier than Q3,” she concludes. “Assuming no objections.”
I lean back in my chair. “Q2 is feasible.”
The room stills.
She doesn’t look at me immediately. That’s deliberate. She lets the silence stretch, lets everyone feel it.
Then she turns. “Based on?”
“Precedent,” I say calmly. “Similar filings cleared in under six months last year.”
She tilts her head. Curious? Annoyed? “Different jurisdiction,” she bites out, finding her fake smile.
The atmosphere shifts. Some team members fidget. Others flip through the presentation printout.
“Same oversight body.” I shrug.
A pause.
I can see her calculating. Running scenarios. Adjusting. She doesn’t like being challenged in public.
I don’t like that I enjoy doing it.
“Those cases didn’t involve cross-border restructuring,” she says.
“True,” I reply. “They also didn’t have your legal team.”
A flicker. Gone almost instantly.
She studies me for a beat too long. “Optimism is dangerous.”
“So is caution,” I counter. “It costs time.”
“And time costs money,” she finishes coolly.
“Which you’re very good at protecting.” I close my notepad. Done.
The room exhales. A few chairs creak.
She smiles. Not friendly. Interested. “Noted,” she says. “We’ll revisit once compliance weighs in.”
I nod once. Roxy blooms with praise. It’s deserved. But I keep offering her wins, and she doesn’t take them.
Goddammit.
She turns back to the board, dismissing me with the efficiency of someone who doesn’t need the last word.
Stubborn woman. The dance is getting tiring. Something sharp and electric coils in my chest.
She wants a war. Or maybe I do.
Either way, I find myself looking forward to it.
And that… that is the problem.
Because for the first time since I walked into this building, I’m not thinking about my father.
I’m thinking about her.
And I don’t remember choosing to.