Chapter 9
Four hours later, Saif was livid.
He’d walked through every department with Jemma, and while she tried to shield the staff, tried to answer his questions with the polished professionalism he remembered, it hadn’t been enough to hide the rot.
The department heads were mostly posturing buffoons—yes-men who clearly hadn’t faced a serious challenge in years. They deferred to Jemma when they couldn’t answer even basic questions. Which was often.
Jemma, sharp as ever, filled in the blanks. Too quickly. Too smoothly.
Which only confirmed his suspicion.
She’d been doing their jobs. All of them. Quietly. Probably for months.
And he was done asking politely.
“We’re getting something to eat,” he said, his tone allowing no argument.
He placed a firm hand against the small of her back—an unconscious gesture, one his body made before his brain caught up. It was muscle memory. Familiar. Possessive.
What surprised him most was how instinctively she leaned in. She fit perfectly against his side, like no time had passed at all.
They walked out of the building together, his guards falling into formation like a silent, protective ring.
“Where’s a good place to eat?” he asked, scanning the street.
Jemma suggested a small diner two blocks down. Cheap. Quiet. She named it without hesitation, probably trying to avoid the kind of restaurant that would draw attention.
Five minutes later, they were seated at a chipped Formica table. He slapped the plastic-coated menu down with a loud smack.
“Okay. Spill it.”
Across from him, Jemma blinked once. Her hazel eyes didn’t show surprise. She’d known this was coming.
Still, she slowly lowered her own menu and set it neatly on the table. Then she folded her hands, steady but wary.
“What do you want to know?” she asked.
“Everything,” he said flatly. “I’ve seen the numbers.
I know Sinstack is circling the drain. I also know the Overlock board previously labeled the company a tolerable loss.
I only bought in for the other subsidiaries that are much more profitable.
But after what I saw this morning, I disagree about the tolerable loss designation.
There’s no excuse for the level of incompetence that I witnessed today.
” He leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, voice pitched low.
“There’s real potential here. The design team’s work was surprisingly fresh, but their concepts aren’t being greenlit.
The fabrics are garbage, but even that could be spun with decent marketing. The company should be profitable.”
He studied her face. Her lips had pressed into a firm, unreadable line.
“And I know you,” he continued. “You see it. You know exactly what’s wrong. But you’re still not talking.”
She looked away.
And that was what set his nerves on edge.
Jemma didn’t avoid eye contact. Not unless she was trying to protect someone.
Her phone buzzed on the table.
He noticed the way her entire body tensed. Just a fraction. Just enough.
He grabbed it.
“Saif!” she hissed, lunging forward, trying to snatch it back.
But he was faster. He caught her wrist in one hand and angled the phone toward him with the other.
A message blinked on the screen—just a few words visible before it disappeared.
He didn’t hesitate. He tapped in her old password.
“Saif, don’t—” she hissed again, glancing around the café.
But the surrounding diners weren’t watching. His security had taken over the nearby tables, forming a bubble of privacy around them.
“I’m just checking to see if you changed your password,” he said calmly, typing with one thumb. “Apparently not.”
With practiced ease, he opened the messages.
Scrolled.
Stopped.
His jaw tightened.
“Does Mark always send you messages like this?” His voice was quiet. Controlled. Lethal.
Jemma tried to grab the phone again, but he yanked it just out of her reach.
“Tell me,” he said, eyes locked on hers.
Then, without waiting for permission, he resumed scrolling.
His face darkened with every swipe.
After a moment, he handed the phone back. His expression was unreadable.
“I didn’t read messages from anyone else,” he said absently, though his eyes never left hers. “Just his.”
Jemma stared down at the phone. Her hands trembled slightly as she closed the message app.
Her cheeks were flushed with humiliation—and something else. Anger. Shame.
“Why are you getting business messages on your personal phone?” he asked, his tone almost mild. “Does Mark reimburse you?”
She snorted, the sound sharp and bitter. “Not likely.”
Then realization hit.
Her arms tightened around her stomach as the meaning of her words sank in. She’d just confirmed it—just handed him more proof of how low she’d fallen. With a sigh, she rubbed her forehead and leaned forward, elbows braced on the table.
“Saif, just… leave it alone, okay?” Her voice was quieter now. Not pleading. Just tired. “I don’t want to lose this job.”
“Why?” His voice was low but laced with fire. “Because you’ve got such an amazing supervisor? A man who cusses you out when you don’t fetch his coffee fast enough?”
She flinched. Not because he was wrong—but because he’d hit the part she hated the most.
“Is this what you wanted, Jemma?” he pressed. “Less responsibility? Was I putting too much pressure on you? Was I—what—too much?”
“No!” she gasped, eyes wide.
The anger in his voice, the disbelief—it caught her off guard. He hadn’t said it to wound her. He’d meant it. Somewhere deep inside, he still couldn’t understand why she’d walked away.
“Good.” His jaw clenched. “Then explain to me why you left a well-paying job where you were respected, relied on, and damn near running things—just to work for a smug, insecure piece of garbage who wouldn’t know a profit margin from a dinner roll.”
Jemma looked away, her breath uneven. She stared out the window, but the world on the other side blurred into nothing.
For a long moment, she didn’t speak.
When she finally turned back, something in her had shifted. Her posture sagged slightly. Her expression was hollowed out, the weight of months pressing down on her shoulders.
“Mark doesn’t want my opinions,” she said, voice low. “He hired me as a business analyst… but what he really wanted was—”
She stopped herself.
Her mouth pulled tight, as if the truth left a bad taste.
“He wanted a beautiful woman to sit outside his office and make him look good,” Saif finished for her.
The disgust in his voice was unmistakable. He leaned back just as the waitress arrived and placed their orders in front of each of them, oblivious to the tension at the table.
When she walked away, Saif nodded toward her phone.
“And based on what I read a few minutes ago, I’d say Mark Sinstack is giving off tiny dick energy.”
Jemma blinked.
Then—too fast to stop herself—she let out a laugh that turned into a snort. Her hand shot up to cover her mouth, eyes wide in surprise at the sound. She glanced around, hoping no one had heard.
Saif only smirked and cut into his food. “Eat,” he said, motioning toward her untouched plate. “You look hungry.”
Jemma’s hand dropped to her fork, but her appetite wasn’t there yet.
“And while we’re eating,” Saif added, casually cutting a bite of his chimichanga, “you can tell me why you’ve lost so much weight. And why you’re working for a pathetic waste of oxygen like that man.”
Jemma stared at her plate.
He didn’t stop.
“You didn’t have to resign when you broke up with me,” he said, softer now. “That was your choice.”