CHAPTER FOUR
SUMMIT
I'd wanted Karrie Parsters-Hillson from the moment I met her.
Three years ago. Company holiday party. She'd walked into the ballroom wearing emerald green silk that made her eyes look like cut gemstones, and I'd felt something shift in my chest—a recognition, immediate and visceral, that this woman was different.
She was on Barthalomew's arm, smiling politely as he introduced her to colleagues, and I'd watched her all night.
Watched the way she listened when people spoke, really listened, her attention focused and genuine.
Watched the way she deflected her husband's casual dismissals with grace.
Watched the intelligence flickering behind her eyes as she navigated conversations with people who underestimated her.
And I'd watched Barthalomew treat her like an accessory. A beautiful, expensive accessory he'd acquired through marriage but didn't actually value.
The man was a fucking idiot.
I'd built Wilder Enterprises from nothing—started in a garage with a laptop and a business plan, worked eighteen-hour days for years, made ruthless decisions that destroyed competitors and elevated allies.
I'd clawed my way to the top of an industry that didn't forgive weakness, and I'd done it by recognizing value when I saw it.
Karrie Parsters-Hillson was valuable. Brilliant. Wasted on a mediocre man who couldn't see past his own ego.
But she was married. And I had standards.
So I'd kept my distance. Acknowledged her at company events with professional courtesy. Never let my gaze linger too long, never let my interest show. I didn't pursue married women—not out of morality, necessarily, but out of practicality. Complications were bad for business.
But I'd noticed her. God, I'd noticed her.
The way she moved through rooms like she owned them, even when her husband was trying to diminish her.
The way she spoke—precise, articulate, with a dry wit that most people missed.
The way she looked at her children when Bart brought them to the summer barbecue, her entire face softening with a love so fierce it was almost painful to witness.
She deserved better than Barthalomew Hillson.
And today, watching her walk into that conference room in white like a warrior queen, I'd realized she finally knew it too.
I'd suspected Bart was fucking his assistant for weeks.
The signs were obvious if you knew what to look for: Jennifer's possessive body language during meetings, Bart's distracted performance, the hotel charges on his expense reports that didn't match any client meetings I'd authorized.
I could have fired him then. Should have, probably. Company policy was clear about workplace relationships, especially between supervisors and subordinates.
But I'd been waiting. Watching. Curious to see how long it would take for the whole thing to implode.
I hadn't expected Karrie to be the one to detonate it.
When she walked into that conference room, I'd known immediately what was about to happen. The set of her shoulders. The cold fury in her eyes. The phone in her hand like a weapon.
She was about to destroy him.
And I was going to enjoy every fucking second of it.
"I know exactly what you're in the middle of, Barthalomew," she'd said, her voice calm and lethal. "Or should I say, who you've been in the middle of?"
I'd leaned back in my chair, watching her with undisguised fascination. This wasn't a woman falling apart. This was a woman executing a plan.
Brilliant.
She'd pulled out her phone and started showing evidence—screenshots, messages, receipts. Every piece of ammunition she needed to annihilate her husband's career and reputation. Bart had lunged at her like the desperate fool he was, and I'd stopped him with a single word.
"Don't."
The authority in my voice had frozen him mid-step. Good. He needed to understand that he had no power here. Not anymore.
Karrie had continued her systematic destruction, and I'd watched her with growing admiration and hunger. She was magnificent. Strategic. Ruthless. Everything I valued in a partner—business or otherwise.
When I'd fired Bart, it had been cathartic. I'd wanted to get rid of him for years—his mediocre performance, his inflated ego, his complete lack of self-awareness. The affair had just given me the perfect excuse.
But firing him had also been strategic.
Because it meant Karrie was about to be single.
And I fully intended to make my interest known.
I'd handed her my card, let my fingers brush hers deliberately, and watched her pupils dilate with awareness. She'd felt it too—that electric current between us, the pull that had been there since the beginning.
"It's Summit," I'd said, my voice dropping into intimacy despite Bart's presence. "And the support is genuine. You deserve better than this."
The way she'd looked at me—like she was seeing me for the first time, really seeing me—had sent heat straight to my cock.
When Bart had accused me of hitting on his wife, I'd smiled.
"I'm offering assistance to a woman who's been wronged. If you're interpreting that as something else, perhaps it's because you recognize that any man with eyes would be interested in someone like her." I'd paused deliberately. "Unlike you, however, I have standards. I don't pursue married women."
But she won't be married much longer.
The implication had hung in the air, and I'd seen the moment Karrie understood. The slight curve of her lips. The spark of interest in her eyes.
She was considering it.
Considering me.
I'd texted her before she'd even left the building: Dinner tonight? I meant what I said. You deserve better. —Summit
Her response had come quickly: What time?
Perfect.
I sent a car for her at seven.
I'd spent the intervening hours handling the fallout from Bart's termination—HR paperwork, security protocols, damage control with the Janowis account. But my mind had been on Karrie the entire time.
What she'd look like when she arrived. What she'd wear. Whether she'd be nervous or confident. Whether she'd let me touch her tonight or make me wait.
I hoped she'd make me wait. The anticipation was exquisite.
My penthouse occupied the top two floors of the building I'd designed myself—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, minimalist furniture that cost more than most people's cars, art I'd collected from around the world.
It was a space that reflected power, taste, and the kind of wealth that didn't need to announce itself.
I'd had my chef prepare dinner—nothing too heavy, nothing that would make her uncomfortable. Wine from my private collection. Candles because I wasn't above setting a mood.
When the elevator opened and she stepped into my foyer, I felt my breath catch.
She was wearing black—a dress that hugged every curve, elegant and devastating. Her hair was down, falling in soft waves over her shoulders. Her makeup was perfect, her heels sharp enough to be weapons.
She looked like power and sex and intelligence wrapped in designer fabric.
"Karrie." I walked toward her slowly, giving her time to take in the space, to settle into the moment. "You look incredible."
"Thank you for the car." Her voice was steady, but I could see the slight flutter of her pulse at her throat. Nervous. Good. So was I. "And for... everything today."
"I didn't do anything you didn't orchestrate yourself." I stopped in front of her, close enough to smell her perfume—something expensive and subtle. "That was all you. I just had the privilege of witnessing it."
She smiled, and it was genuine. "You fired him pretty quickly."
"I've wanted to fire Barthalomew Hillson for two years. You gave me the perfect excuse." I gestured toward the living room. "Wine?"
"Please."
I poured us both glasses of a Bordeaux I'd been saving for a special occasion. This qualified. I handed her the glass, and our fingers brushed again—that same electric current, stronger now that we were alone.
"To new beginnings," I said, raising my glass.
"To revenge," she countered, her eyes sparkling with dark humor.
I laughed. "Even better."
We drank, and I watched her look around the penthouse, taking in the view, the art, the carefully curated space that reflected who I was.
"This is beautiful," she said softly. "Did you design it?"
"The building, yes. The interior, I had help." I moved to stand beside her at the window, looking out over the city lights. "I wanted something that felt like power without being ostentatious. Wealth that doesn't need to prove itself."
"You succeeded." She turned to look at me, and I could see the question in her eyes. "Why did you invite me here, Summit?"
Direct. I liked that.
"Because I've wanted you since the moment I met you," I said simply. "And because you're finally free to want me back."
Her breath hitched. "That's... very direct."
"I don't believe in wasting time." I set my wine glass down and turned to face her fully.
"I've watched you for three years, Karrie.
Watched you be brilliant and gracious and strong while your husband treated you like an afterthought.
Watched you raise your children and manage your household and navigate social situations with more intelligence than anyone in the room. "
I took a step closer, and she didn't move away.
"I've wanted to touch you every single time I've seen you.
Wanted to know what you taste like, what you sound like when you come, what it would feel like to have all that intelligence and strength focused on me.
" My voice dropped lower. "But you were married.
And I don't touch what belongs to someone else. "
"I never belonged to him," she said quietly. "I just didn't realize it until today."
"No," I agreed. "You didn't. You were always too much for him. Too smart. Too strong. Too everything." I reached out slowly, giving her time to pull away, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "He never deserved you."
Her eyes were dark, pupils dilated. "And you think you do?"