Chapter 10
Jemma walked into the building beside Saif without saying a word.
The food she’d managed to choke down sat in her stomach like a rock. Every step forward felt like wading through wet cement. She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to trail behind Saif like some assistant while he verbally disemboweled Mark in front of the team.
But she would.
Because Jayla needed diapers and formula.
Because Jasper had outgrown another pair of shoes last week.
Because that meager salary from her humiliating excuse for a job was the only thing keeping the lights on.
Because she wasn’t the only one stuck in this crumbling building with a manager who didn’t deserve the title—there were good people here, smart people, and they deserved better.
She added formula to the mental list. Again. At this rate, she’d have to put it on the store credit card and pray she had enough points for a discount.
The silence between her and Saif stretched, thick with everything unsaid.
He’d asked sharp questions over lunch. She’d given clinical, exacting answers—nothing more.
She didn’t offer opinions, didn’t provide analysis.
She needed to keep her options open. If Saif walked away from this company, she’d still be stuck here.
If he shut it down, she’d need a reference.
And she knew better than to expect one from Mark.
Then there was the comment he’d tossed at her: You didn’t have to resign.
What was she supposed to say to that?
Sorry, Saif, I left because I was pregnant with our daughter and I knew you didn’t want kids. I didn’t want to trap you. I just wanted to survive.
She glanced at him now, at the sharp line of his jaw. He had a bit of scruff again. He always let it grow when he was focused, when his brain was chewing through a problem and couldn’t be bothered with appearances.
Her fingers twitched at the memory of how that stubble had scraped deliciously against her skin. The way it rasped along her thighs, her breasts—
He looked at her.
Just a quick glance, but enough to catch her staring.
Jemma flushed instantly and turned her head, pretending to study the stained carpet runner along the warehouse hall.
She wasn’t thinking about his mouth. Or how she used to scream his name.
Or how she’d spent the past year celibate because no one, not even in her daydreams, could compare to the man walking beside her.
A man who didn’t even know he had a daughter.
Don’t think about that.
Too late.
The weight of the past year pressed on her again—her mother’s diagnosis, the whirlwind of hospital visits, the sleepless nights. The pregnancy. The postpartum haze. Jasper suggesting that he drop out of school to help. The guilt. The relentless juggling of everything.
“Brace yourself,” Saif murmured, just as they reached the open floor of the main office.
Jemma blinked, shaken from the spiral of memories.
Sinstack Designs occupied an old warehouse with soaring ceilings and massive windows that, during the summer months, let in more heat than light and during the winter months, allowed all the heat to sneak out, leaving the employees freezing.
The central area was carved into a chaotic maze of gray cubicles, as if someone had bought a bulk pack on clearance and arranged them with a blindfold on.
Boxes of unsold inventory lined the back wall—stacks of failure that had never made it to market.
Jemma knew those boxes well. They were dust-covered monuments to Mark’s ego. Designs that could’ve been salvaged, repackaged, sold off to discount chains. But no—Mark simply wrote them off. Better to pretend they didn’t exist than admit they were a mistake.
Her stomach twisted.
She glanced at Saif.
He was calm. But it was the kind of calm that came before lightning cracked the sky. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were scanning everything. Calculating. Absorbing.
Two hundred years ago, he’d have been a general leading armies into battle. But now?
Now he wore a tailored jacket and didn’t need a sword. His words cut sharper than steel.
Jemma knew what came next.
Mark stood as they rounded the cubicle maze. He straightened to his full height, lips curled in a familiar sneer. His eyes narrowed. He was about to say something—probably something degrading, probably loud enough for the entire team to hear.
But then he caught a glimpse of Saif’s face.
Whatever Mark had been about to say evaporated. His mouth snapped shut. A rare flicker of instinct warned him that the man beside Jemma wasn’t someone to provoke.
Still, Mark had never known when to back down.
“You’re late,” he barked, puffing up again.
Jemma felt Saif tense beside her, and for a moment, she couldn’t understand why.
He wasn’t supposed to care.
Not anymore.
Not after everything that had happened, everything she hadn’t told him. But the quiet fury radiating off his broad frame said otherwise.
Mark’s harsh tone barely registered in her ears—it was background noise by now. She responded automatically, her voice soft and practiced. “I was here on time,” she said, keeping her tone neutral, placating. The goal was always the same: don’t provoke him.
She walked to her desk, calmly slid her tote into the drawer, locked it, and picked up her notebook. Then she turned to face the man who technically signed her paychecks.
“You missed this morning’s meetings,” Mark barked. “You’ll need to stay late to make up the time.”
She didn’t flinch, didn’t react. It was the same song and dance.
But she could practically feel Saif seethe beside her.
Mark finally turned to acknowledge the man towering beside her, and she almost laughed at the ridiculousness of it. This was it—Mark’s pathetic attempt to reassert his dominance.
He puffed out his chest like a rooster on steroids. The posture. The tone. The intentional delay in acknowledging Saif, as if that would diminish the obvious alpha energy next to her. Tiny Dick Energy, she thought, trying not to smirk.
Saif hadn’t even opened his mouth, and already Mark looked like a knockoff stuffed into a wrinkled suit.
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing outright.
Saif looked like he could walk onto the cover of GQ without breaking stride.
Mark, on the other hand, had a gut that hung over his belt, even though he tried to hide it with a jacket.
His shoulders sagged under cheap padding, and without that jacket? He’d vanish into himself.
And then there was the hair.
Or the absence of it.
Saif’s thick dark hair was trimmed neatly, his dark eyes alert and cutting. Mark’s receding hairline looked like it had waved the white flag years ago, and his bloodshot eyes hinted at more bourbon than sleep.
“I’m Mark Sinstack,” he announced with artificial bravado, stepping forward with an outstretched hand. “Are you one of Jemma’s projects?”
Saif didn’t take the hand.
Didn’t even look at it.
Jemma winced. She knew that gesture would make Mark combust internally.
“We should speak in private,” Saif said coolly, brushing past him like he wasn’t even worth the effort. “Jemma, you should be part of this conversation, too.”
Mark bristled, puffed up again.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded, the pitch of his voice rising. Then he waved a dismissive hand in the air. “I don’t have a meeting with you, so get the hell out of my building!”
Jemma sighed. Even she knew better than to poke the beast when he was in this kind of mood.
She took a step forward, ready to explain, to diffuse.
But Saif lifted a hand, stopping her with a simple gesture.
“I’m Saif Al-Sintra,” he said, his voice cool and edged with steel. “And you’re fired.”
There was a stunned beat of silence.
Then Mark laughed.
It was loud, obnoxious, and full of the same misplaced confidence he used in staff meetings.
“You can’t fire me!” he shouted, his voice echoing down the hall. A few heads were already peeking around cubicle walls. “I own this place!”
Saif moved closer, his expression calm—but there was that glint in his eye. That glint that made people shift uncomfortably in their shoes without knowing why.
“Actually, you sold your company to Overlock Corporation five years ago,” Saif said, voice low and deliberate.
Mark’s face didn’t even twitch. “So?” he scoffed. “The contract clearly states I remain in charge.”
Saif’s smile was slow. Knowing.
The kind of smile that made people sweat.
“Yes, Mark,” he said softly. “It states you’re allowed to run the company—as long as the company remains profitable.”
The words dropped like thunder.
Mark paled.
The crowd of employees gathering nearby tensed, breath held as if waiting for a verdict.
“This company is profitable,” Mark insisted, but even his voice faltered now.
“Sinstack Designs hasn’t shown a profit in three years,” Saif said, his voice harder now. “Overlock is preparing to sell it off.”
“No!” Mark choked, eyes wide as he glanced around, realizing just how many people were watching. “That can’t happen!” He turned to the onlookers. “Get back to work!”
No one moved.
Saif didn’t raise his voice, didn’t need to.
He simply turned his gaze to Jemma.
“What’s your analysis of the new line?” he asked, calmly and without looking at Mark again.
Jemma shrank back slightly from the confrontation, instinct kicking in from months of being steamrolled by louder voices and stronger egos.
But then her gaze flicked to the faces around her.
Her coworkers. People who had stayed late with her, fought against Mark’s bad decisions, worried about whether paychecks would clear.
If Mark stayed in charge, they’d all be out of jobs within the next six months.
Maybe sooner.
She straightened her spine.
“The current number of retail sites that are accepting orders has declined by twenty-four percent compared to last year,” she said clearly.
Her voice didn’t shake. “The factory contracted to produce the new line has already called to say they can’t fulfill the order volume, which will reduce projected revenue by an additional twelve percent. ”
She took a breath, meeting Saif’s eyes.
“And the cost of manufacturing the line has increased by five point four percent, which will further impact profitability.”
Saif’s eyebrows pulled together. “Why the hell did production costs increase?” he asked, sharp confusion in his voice.
Jemma glanced at Mark, who was practically vibrating with rage.
Then she turned back to Saif.
She could lie. Say it was inflation. Blame shipping costs. Give some corporate-speak answer and walk away clean.
But she didn’t.
Because she had Jasper and Jayla waiting at home.
Because people here trusted her.
And because Saif was watching her like she mattered.
“Because Mark signed a production contract with one of his drinking buddies,” she said, her voice even. “The company is under investigation. The owner’s international trips to Singapore are… under legal scrutiny. Details pending.”
She didn’t elaborate. She didn’t have to. The implication was clear.
There was a beat of silence, and when she dared glance up at Saif, something flickered behind his eyes. Amusement? No. That wasn’t strong enough.
Admiration.
Real and startling.
Her heart stuttered.
It was the first time in over a year she’d felt… proud. Not just of surviving—but of standing up and speaking truth when it mattered.
“She’s lying!” Mark snarled, his voice trembling with fury. “That’s not true!”
Saif didn’t even bother responding directly. He simply sighed and gave a tight shake of his head.
“We could have had this conversation in private, Mark,” he said. “But you wanted an audience. Now you’ve got one.”
He turned and gave a subtle nod to one of the bodyguards standing nearby.
“Escort Mr. Sinstack off the premises,” Saif said, cool and final.
“Gladly,” the man replied, moving with swift precision.
“You can’t do this!” Mark barked, his voice cracking. “The board won’t let you! You have no right—”
Mark lunged at the nearest guard, fist flying in a sloppy arc.
But the guard caught his wrist mid-swing and expertly twisted Mark’s arms behind his back.
A collective gasp echoed across the floor.
A moment later, the glass doors swung wide, and Mark was marched out—his tie askew, his face mottled with rage, shouting curses that no one took seriously.
The silence left in his wake was heavy.