12. Reece
Reece
I arrive at the office earlier than usual, hoping the stillness will feel like discipline instead of consequence. But it doesn’t. The silence reminds me of last night.
It clings to the space between the glass walls and the concrete floors, echoing through the dim corridors.
Her laugh isn’t here, but I can still hear it.
Her scent—floral, subtle, warm—doesn’t linger, but I know exactly how it would’ve mixed with the late-night quiet.
Her voice, low and teasing, whispers at the edges of my memory, reminding me of how close I came to undoing every boundary I’ve built.
I sit at my desk and open my laptop, but I don’t read the first email. My eyes keep drifting to the chair she occupied last night… barefoot, soft-eyed, calm and completely unaware of the way she’s folding herself into this world like she was meant to be here.
I’m not afraid of desire. I’ve known want. I’ve known loneliness. What I fear is the way she makes the air feel different. The way my restraint stretches thinner with every glance she gives me.
I fear the look in her eyes when she’s challenging me because it feels like she sees through all of the bullshit. All of the lies I’ve told myself and everyone else about wanting to live in solitude. As if she’s not afraid to see me for who I am beneath all of it.
Most people don’t look that closely. They see the empire and forget the man. But not her. Skye sees too much. And worse, she makes me want to be seen.
I shift back in my chair and reach for my coffee, but it’s cold. I don’t remember pouring it. I don’t remember anything between waking up this morning and sitting here trying to piece myself back together like the past twelve hours didn’t happen.
There’s a knock on the glass wall of my office.
Skye stands there, holding a folder. Her blouse is crisp. Her hair is pulled back. She looks composed. Normal. Unbothered. Like nothing ever happened.
I nod once, giving her permission to enter.
She steps inside, setting the folder gently on the desk between us. “Finalized version of the investor deck. I flagged two slides for review.”
“Thank you.”
Her gaze doesn’t linger. She doesn’t smile. She turns to leave without another word. And I let her. Because if I say something—if I let myself speak while she’s this close—I might not stop at words.
After she leaves, I open the folder and scan the slides, but the information barely registers.
All I can focus on is the curve of her handwriting in the margin and the faint smudge where her thumb must’ve pressed against the paper.
I run my finger over it like an obsessive stalker.
I close my eyes, my jaw tightening as images of her flood my brain and her perfume burns into my nostrils.
This can ’ t go on like this.
I either need to draw a line or cross it, and I already know which one I’m not strong enough to enforce. But I can give myself time. I can keep things polite. Distant. I can make sure no one else notices what’s already shifted between us.
That’s the first rule: control the narrative.
By the time noon hits, the day has buried me under meetings and strategy calls, which is exactly what I need. It’s easier to pretend when I’m performing, when I’m the version of myself who doesn’t feel anything except the weight of the next decision.
Skye keeps her distance. She doesn’t linger. She speaks when she needs to, and not a word more. She’s drawing a line, too. And somehow, that makes me want to cross it even more.
It’s late when the day finally ends. Most of the team has already gone home. I close out my laptop, gather my jacket, and step out of my office just as she’s collecting her bag.
“You’re staying late again,” I say.
She looks up, startled for half a second before her expression smooths into something neutral. “Just wrapping up.”
“I’ll have Michael bring the car around. Let me drop you.”
Her eyes flick to mine. “I’m good. I’ll just grab a ride.”
I arch a brow. “That wasn’t a question.”
Her lips part slightly with an exasperated sigh. “Seriously?”
“Yes.”
Her bag is still slung over one shoulder, her hand curled around her phone like she’s ready to throw it at my face. “Is this because of last night? Because you don’t have to do some weird, retroactive gentleman act.”
“No.” I keep my tone even, unaffected. “It’s late. I’d prefer you have a safe ride home.”
She shakes her head, scoffing under her breath. “I’m not your problem to worry about.”
I step in closer, lowering my voice. “You’re not a problem, Skye. It’s your attitude that makes things complicated.”
Her eyes flash. There it is. It’s been simmering all day.
I saw it when she passed me in the hallway and barely looked up.
Heard it in her clipped tone during the marketing call.
Felt it in the way she lingered just a little too long in the break room, like she was daring me to say something. To touch her. To react.
I’ve been holding the line all fucking day and she has no idea how thin it is right now.
She exhales through her nose like she’s going to argue again, but then, surprisingly, she doesn’t. She brushes past me and gets into the elevator. The ride is silent, the air thick with tension. When we reach the lobby and the doors open, I gesture for her to go first.
“Evening, sir,” Michael says, holding the door open.
“Evening, Michael. We’ll be dropping Miss Rhodes off first tonight.”
“Thank you.” She smiles at Michael briefly before ducking into the back seat.
I follow, settling into the seat beside her as the door shuts and the street vanishes behind tinted glass. We don’t speak. We don’t move. The silence is immediate. And loaded.
She stares straight ahead, jaw tight, fingers flexing against the leather handle of her bag. Her skirt hitches slightly higher on her thigh than it did this morning, and her perfume lingers in the space between us.
Michael keeps his eyes on the road. As always.
He doesn’t ask questions. He knows not to.
Skye shifts in her seat, crossing her legs.
The motion draws my attention down to the edge of her hemline again and her bare skin, pale against the dark interior.
My gaze catches there for half a beat too long.
She notices. Of course she does.
“Why do you like playing this game?” she asks, not turning to face me. Her voice is quiet, but firm.
I glance at her. “I’m not playing.”
She laughs once, flat and humorless. “Right.”
She looks away again, turning her head to the window.
Her profile glows under the streetlights as they flash past—soft cheekbone, delicate jaw, the edge of her mouth pulled into a straight line.
I reach forward and press the button to raise the privacy divider.
The soft mechanical hum fills the car until the barrier clicks into place, cutting us off from the rest of the world.
She turns… Slowly. Brows lifted. “What are you doing?”
I lean closer. “Let’s have a little talk.”
She blinks. “About what, exactly?”
I reach out and place my hand on her thigh. My palm spans the warm, bare skin above her knee. I feel the way her muscles tense beneath my touch. A small, involuntary shiver rolls through her. I drag my thumb in a slow, careful circle but she doesn’t move away.
Her voice is tight. “This isn’t talking.”
“No?” I ask, tracing another circle. “Seems like we’ve been avoiding it all day.”
She swallows. I keep my tone low. Controlled.
“You’ve been walking around that office with your chin up, your eyes everywhere but on mine. You keep pretending nothing’s changed. Like I don’t notice the way you breathe faster every time I pass your desk. Like you didn’t tell me this is dangerous. ”
Her breath hitches. Her hand curls into a fist against her thigh, just above mine. “Maybe I meant it,” she says.
I shift closer, letting my leg press into hers. “You did. And you’re right. This is dangerous.” Another beat passes between us. Heavy with every wrong thought we haven’t let ourselves say out loud.
She leans back against the leather, tilting her face up to meet mine. “So what are we doing, Reece?”
I smile, slow and dark. “Talking.”
Her breath stutters, the kind of inhale that betrays nerves she doesn’t want me to see. But I do. I see everything. The quick pulse in her neck. The faint tremble in her thigh under my palm. The fact that she hasn’t moved away.
I slide my hand up her thigh just a little bit higher, my fingers softly grazing the inside of her thigh.
Her skin is warm, soft, and impossibly smooth under my hand.
I drag my thumb in another slow circle and feel the tension coil tighter in her body, like she’s either going to slap me or beg me to move just a few inches higher.
“I think,” I say, my eyes never leaving hers, “you like this game more than you admit.”
She scoffs, a sharp little sound in her throat that doesn’t match the way her legs squeeze together beneath my touch. “Please.”
“Please what?”
“That’s not what this is.”
“No?” I lean in until my mouth is a breath from hers. I don’t kiss her. Don’t even graze her lips. I let them linger. “Then tell me what it is.”
She licks her bottom lip, her tongue so close to touching my lips and my cock jerks against the zipper of my slacks. She knows what that mouth does. She knows what she’s doing now. But she’s still lying to herself.
“I work for you,” she says.
“You work for my company.”
“I fucked your son.”
I arch a brow. Her attempt to piss me off or scare me won’t work on me right now. “Are you telling me that’s why you haven’t been able to stop looking at me all week? Are you worried you’ll like it better with me?”