Bound By Desire

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Avery

The engagement ring burns coldly in my coat pocket as I push through the glass doors of Vance Enterprises.

Six weeks. I've carried this diamond weight for exactly forty-two days, and today I'm finally ready to let it go.

The lobby stretches before me, all marble and morning light, empty except for the security guard who nods his usual greeting.

My heels click a steady rhythm across the polished floor while I mentally review my plans.

Soon, I'll take the ring to that consignment shop in Pacific Heights.

Then I'll reschedule my flight to Paris.

The honeymoon in France that was supposed to be ours, but will now be mine alone. A reclamation. A victory.

The elevator doors slide open with their familiar chime, and I step inside, pressing the button for the executive floor.

My reflection stares back at me from the mirrored walls: professional blazer, hair pulled back in a sleek bun, makeup flawless.

I look like someone who's got her life together…

Someone who doesn't wake up reaching for a man that isn't there.

The doors open again, and I step out into the executive lobby.

Then I see him.

Oliver Martinez stands ten feet away, holding a bouquet of white roses, wearing that earnest expression I know too well. The one that says he believes he deserves another chance. The one that used to make me melt.

My heart slams against my ribs. My hands turn into ice. The air leaves my lungs in a rush, and suddenly the lobby feels too small, the walls pressing in.

He's here. In my workplace, the sanctuary I've built for myself.

"Avery." His voice carries across the space between us, soft and hopeful, and I hate how my name still sounds like a prayer on his lips.

My chest tightens. My vision narrows to a pinpoint: just him and those damned roses that look exactly like the ones from our first date. I count silently, the way Jessica taught me during those first awful weeks.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

But the breathing technique isn't working. My lungs won't expand properly, and panic claws at my throat.

Oliver takes a step toward me. "I was trying to find you. I know I screwed up, and I don’t deserve you. But please, Avery… just tell me it’s not too late."

The words trigger something visceral. And suddenly, I'm not in the Vance Enterprises lobby anymore.

I'm standing in the doorway of our bedroom, my bag dropping from numb fingers as I process the scene before me.

Oliver scrambling for his boxers. A woman I don't recognize pulling our sheets—OUR sheets—up to cover herself.

The engagement party invitations are still sitting on our kitchen counter, one week away from being mailed.

"Avery, let me explain—" he'd started.

"Get out." I'd whispered then, my voice barely audible.

Now he's here, holding flowers like they can erase the image burned into my memory.

Cheating is my dealbreaker, the one thing I can never forgive.

He knew that.

And did what he did anyway.

I turn on my heel, my body moving before my mind catches up. My heels strike the marble floor in sharp staccatos as I head straight for the executive wing. I need somewhere safe. Somewhere he won't follow. Somewhere I won't fall apart.

I don't remember grabbing the file folder from the reception desk, but it's clutched in my hands as I push through Dylan Vance's office door without knocking or glancing back at the bewildered assistant staring at me.

Dylan looks up from his desk, and those sharp gray eyes take in everything at once: my rigid posture, the white knuckles gripping the folder, the slight tremor in my hands. He rises slowly from his chair, six feet of controlled power in a charcoal suit that fits him perfectly.

"Avery?" Just my name, but the way he says it makes something loosen in my chest.

He moves around his desk with deliberate calm, closing the distance between us. Without a word, he takes the file from my hands, setting it aside. His fingers are warm against mine for just a moment, and I realize how cold I've gone.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

I shake my head, too stunned to speak. I can't get my mind together.

Then he does something that changes everything.

His hand lifts, and he brushes a strand of hair that's escaped my bun back behind my ear. The touch is gentle, protective, and his jaw tightens as his gaze flicks toward the door.

"Is someone out there bothering you?"

I manage a nod, not trusting my voice to remain steady.

His eyes darken to the color of storm clouds. When he speaks again, his voice drops to a growl that sends unexpected heat racing down my spine. "If he came here for you, then he just made a big mistake."

The careful professional distance I've maintained for three months evaporates.

All those late nights when the office felt too quiet, and the air between us felt charged.

The lingering glances across conference rooms. The almost touches at the small of my back when we walk through doorways.

The way he always seems to know when I need coffee before I ask.

Something shifts in my chest, terrifying and exhilarating at once.

I've been working with Dylan Vance as legal counsel for about three months now.

He appeared to be incredibly understanding when I suddenly asked for two weeks off after what happened with Oliver, having worked at the position for barely two months.

I hid away in Jess' forest house, broken and consuming chips and ice cream, watching Netflix nonstop.

But I didn't want to fail Dylan. So I gathered myself up—with Jess's help—and returned to work to drown in it, to forget, to be normal again, and move forward with my life.

And everything was fine until Oliver found me.

Dylan picks up his phone, his movements precise and controlled.

"Security? This is Vance. There's an unauthorized individual in the executive lobby.

Remove him immediately." A pause. "No, I don't care if he says he knows an employee.

He's trespassing. Escort him out and make sure he understands he's not welcome back. "

He ends the call and turns back to me, his expression softening slightly. "Come on. Let's get you somewhere you can sit down."

His hand hovers near my elbow, not quite touching but close enough that I feel the warmth as he guides me to a conference room down the hall. The space is quiet, afternoon sun streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city.

"Do you need anything? Water? Coffee?" His voice is careful now, gentle in a way that makes my chest ache.

"I'm okay." The lie slips out automatically. "Thank you. I'm sorry for barging into your office like that."

"Avery." He says my name like it matters. Like I matter. "You never have to apologize for needing help."

Our eyes meet, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. Then his phone buzzes, breaking the spell.

"I have to take this," he says, genuine regret coloring his voice. "But if you need anything..."

"I'm fine. Really."

Another lie, but I've gotten good at those.

I make it through the rest of the morning on autopilot. Emails blur together. Meeting notes might as well be written in a foreign language. Every time someone walks past my office, my body tenses, expecting to see Oliver's face.

By five o'clock, I'm holding myself together with mental duct tape and sheer determination.

The commute home passes in a blur of brake lights and half-formed thoughts.

My apartment building comes into view—a converted Victorian in Nob Hill with bay windows and original hardwood floors. My other safe haven.

Just a few more feet up the stairs. Just get inside. Then you can fall apart.

My new apartment smells like vanilla candles and the lavender plant on the windowsill. Soft cream walls, plush throws in jewel tones draped over my reading chair, warm Edison bulbs casting golden light over everything.

I make it exactly three steps in before my phone rings.

Jessica's photo fills the screen—the one from last Christmas where she's wearing the terrible sweater Mom knitted, laughing so hard her eyes are squeezed shut.

"Hey," I answer, trying to inject normalcy into my voice.

"Are you okay?" No preamble. No small talk. Just my sister, reading me like she always does.

The walls I've been holding up all day crumble like sandcastles against the tide.

"No." The word comes out broken. "Jess, he showed up at work.” “What?!” “He was in the lobby, with flowers, and I can't—I thought I was over this. I thought I was better."

"Oh, honey." The sound of her voice cracks something in me. Suddenly, I’m sobbing in my entryway, still wearing my coat, the engagement ring pressing against my ribs through the pocket like an accusation.

"He approached me like nothing had happened," I manage between gasps. "Like showing up could fix everything he destroyed."

Jessica’s tone sharpens. "That manipulative piece of—" She cuts herself off. "Okay. I’m coming over."

"You don’t have to—"

"Too late. Open a bottle of wine. I’ll be there in thirty."

When we hang up, I’m still shaking, but it’s the first time all day that I don’t feel completely alone.

Darkness has settled over the city, lights twinkling beyond my windows like earthbound stars.

My phone buzzes again — this time with a text. Dylan's name appears on the screen.

Are you okay?

I stare at his message for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. Professional distance would mean not responding.

Instead, I type: I'm home. Thank you for today.

Three dots appear immediately. Then: Always.

One word, but it sends warmth spreading through my chest, chasing away the last of the cold Oliver left behind.

I run a bath and light my candles, ready to shed this day like my coat. As I sink into hot water that smells like eucalyptus and mint, I can't stop thinking about those gray eyes, gentle hands, and a voice that turned dangerous when I needed protection…

Most of all, I can’t take my mind off the way Dylan texted "always" like a promise.