Chapter 2
Daniel
Iwake at five thirty, same as every morning.
My penthouse is silent except for the hum of the climate control system maintaining exactly seventy-one degrees.
I step into water hot enough to leave my skin red, pull on a charcoal Tom Ford suit that was flown into the country last week, and drink my coffee black while the overnight market reports glow on my tablet.
It's my usual routine. I never break it, except this morning, something is off. I can't focus on anything other than Friday night.
I don’t do that. I don’t pick up women in bars. I don’t lose control.
But on Friday, I did.
Her laugh, rough around the edges from whiskey and whatever shit she’s going through, was too cute to ignore. She’d looked at me like she could see past the suit and the money to something real underneath. The heat of her skin against mine, the catch of her breath when I—
I set down my coffee cup harder than necessary.
It was a mistake. A momentary lapse in judgment brought on by too much scotch and Cassidy’s latest media assassination. The woman is a distraction I can't afford, and I need to lock Friday night in the vault where I keep everything else I can’t deal with.
I arrive at Williams Ventures at six forty-five, before most of the staff.
The forty-four floored building dominates the block, with ‘Williams’ in block letters three stories tall across the facade.
I built every floor of it. Started with one bet that worked, compounded it, and turned luck into leverage.
My office is on the top floor, with a corner view and windows on two sides, offering a view of the city. I settle behind my desk and open my laptop, diving into emails.
By eight thirty, I’ve handled three crises, approved two deals, and killed one project that would have hemorrhaged money within a quarter. My PR manager, Lottie, appears in my doorway at nine with her tablet and particular chaos brand.
“Morning,” she says, settling into the chair across from me without waiting for an invitation.
We have worked together long enough that formality died years ago.
“Board meeting is at two. I’ve got the presentation ready, but you need to review it.
Also, the Journal wants to comment on the Cassidy situation. ”
“Tell them no comment.”
“I did. They’re running the story anyway.”
Of course they are. Cassidy’s latest hit piece, painting me as an emotionally unavailable workaholic who destroyed our relationship, dropped last week. Never mind that she’d been the one sleeping with a journalist to advance her own career.
The press loves a villain, and I make an excellent one.
“Let them run it,” I say. “We’ve got bigger concerns. How’s the Larsson deal looking?”
We spend the next twenty minutes dissecting PR strategies for upcoming deals. Lottie leaves with her marching orders, and I return to the chaos of running a company.
My phone buzzes at nine forty-five. A message from HR:
Your new lead designer has arrived. Should I send her up?
I glance at the name on the hiring paperwork sitting on my desk. Bailey Rodgers. Twenty-eight. Impressive portfolio. She even came highly recommended from her previous firm. I’d barely glanced at her file during the final approval. I trust my hiring team to vet candidates thoroughly.
Give me ten minutes, I send back.
I finish the email I’m composing, make a note for my assistant about the investor call this afternoon, and straighten my tie out of habit. New hires always get the same speech: high expectations, higher standards, no room for mediocrity.
My phone buzzes in exactly nine minutes.
Sending her up now.
I stand, buttoning my suit jacket, and move to the window.
I’ve always loved to watch the people below my building.
Most of them see forty-four floors with my name on it and feel small.
The smart ones see it and feel hungry. I’m watching a young woman argue with the security guard at the entrance when I hear the knock.
“Come in,” I call without turning.
I hear the door open and the soft click of heels on hardwood. I give it another beat, letting them absorb the view, the office, the casual display of power, before I turn.
And for a second, I think I must be imagining things.
It’s her.
The woman from the bar. The one whose laugh had unraveled something I’d thought was permanently locked away in my chest.
She stands in the doorway, frozen, her face cycling through the same shock I’m trying desperately to hide.
Those curves that had fit perfectly against me Friday night are now contained in a professional navy dress and blazer. Her dark hair is pulled back instead of tumbling over bare shoulders. But her eyes—warm brown, too expressive for her own good—are precisely the same.
Fuck.
Bailey Rodgers.
The new hire is the woman I fucked three nights ago.
Every muscle in my body locks down, years of practice controlling my reactions snapping into place. I can’t let her see that this matters.
“Ms. Rodgers,” I say, my voice coming out clipped. “Take a seat.”
She doesn’t move for a heartbeat, and then she straightens her spine.
“Mr. Williams,” she says, and hearing my name in the same voice that had gasped against my neck, does something unfortunate to my pulse.
She crosses to the chair a bit too stiffly. I return to my desk, putting a very necessary distance between us.
Up close, I can see the faint shadows under her eyes. She didn’t sleep well. Why?
“I reviewed your portfolio,” I say, which is partially true. I reviewed it weeks ago during the initial hiring process, before I knew who she was. “Your technical skills are adequate.”
Something flashes in her eyes. “Adequate.”
“Your design work is competent but painfully basic. You follow trends rather than setting them.”
It’s a lie. Her portfolio was the strongest of all the candidates. It was bold, innovative, and precisely the thinking we needed. But if I'm too nice now, she may get the wrong idea.
I need to stop noticing the way her pulse jumps at the base of her throat.
“With all due respect,” she says, her tone perfectly neutral but with an edge underneath. “You hired me based on that portfolio. If it were merely adequate, I wouldn’t be here.”
I lean back in my chair, studying her. “Are you arguing with me on your first day?”
“I’m clarifying a mistake in your assessment.”
My mouth wants to curve. I don’t let it. “The design industry is subjective. What impresses a hiring committee doesn’t always translate to real-world application.”
“Then perhaps you should be more involved in your hiring process.”
We pause, watching each other.
“Tell me, Ms. Rodgers,” I say quietly, “do you always challenge authority, or am I special?”
Her eyes widen fractionally.
“I challenge baseless assumptions.”
“Wow, I admire your simplicity when it comes to critical thinking.”
She draws in a breath, obviously fighting to stay patient. I stand then, moving to the window because I need air that doesn’t smell faintly like her perfume.
“Your first project is in your inbox,” I say with my back to her. “I expect initial concepts by the end of Wednesday. We have a client presentation on Friday.”
“That’s three days.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No.” She clears her throat. “I’ll have them ready for you Wednesday morning.”
I turn back. She is standing now, chin lifted, meeting my gaze directly.
“We have high standards here, Ms. Rodgers. Don’t disappoint me.”
“I don’t intend to, Mr. Williams.”
The formal names sit wrong between us, a flimsy barrier against the memory of skin and breath and how she’d said she wanted me.
“HR will get you set up with your workspace and access credentials. If you have questions, direct them to your team lead. I don’t have time for hand-holding.”
It is dismissive. Deliberately so.
I watch her jaw tighten fractionally.
“Understood,” she says. “Will that be all?”
“Yes.”
She turns toward the door, and I fight to keep my eyes above her waist. The door closes behind her with a soft click. I stand frozen at my desk, hands braced against the polished wood, breathing harder than I should be.
Fuck.
This is bad. This is a liability I can’t afford. She’s my employee, and I just spent three days trying to forget how she’d felt beneath me.
I move to the window, watching the city pulse below, trying to think strategically.
Options. Contingencies. I need to contain this before it explodes.
I could transfer her to another team, but that would raise questions, especially this soon.
I could fire her, but she’s talented, and I don’t punish competence because of personal matters.
The best option is to keep pretending Friday night never happened and treat her like any other employee.
Except I can’t stop seeing her in my doorway, looking at me like I’m simultaneously a stranger and someone who knows exactly what she sounds like when she comes apart.
My phone buzzes. I grab it, grateful for the distraction.
A text from Trevor, my best friend since college: Family reunion next weekend. You still coming? Mom’s asking.
I type back: Yeah, I’ll be there.
Another text comes through immediately: Great. My sister is coming too. You’ll finally get to meet her.
My intercom buzzes. “Mr. Williams? You have the Larsson call in five minutes.”
“Thank you, Patricia. Put them through when they’re ready.”
I press my palms against my eyes, hard enough to see stars, except all I see is Bailey Rodgers’ face.
This is fine. I can handle this. I’ve built an empire on control and discipline. One woman, no matter how she makes me feel, isn’t going to destroy that.
I’ll keep things professional, and I’ll absolutely not, under any circumstances, think about Friday night again. But when I glance at my office door, I know I’m lying to myself.
And now I have to figure out how to work beside the woman who’s made me forget why I built these walls in the first place.