Scarlette
I’ve never actually been chased by a bear, but I imagine this is what it feels like.
Heart battering against my ribs. Lungs burning. A primal certainty that something large and dangerous is about to devour me whole.
The executive floor is eerily quiet compared to the chaos of my normal floor. The carpet is thicker. The lighting softer. Everything whispers money in a way that makes my Target clearance outfit feel like it might spontaneously combust from inadequacy.
I stop in front of the massive double doors at the end of the hallway. There’s no nameplate. No sign. Nothing to indicate that beyond this threshold waits the man who now owns my company and, apparently, my career’s death warrant.
Just breathe, Scarlette.
I raise my hand to knock, but before my knuckles can make contact, a voice calls from inside.
“Enter.”
Sweet mercy, even through a door his voice does that...thing. That electric, tingling thing that makes my insides feel like melting caramel.
I push the door open and step inside, trying desperately to channel the confidence of someone who didn’t just compare their new boss to a predatory animal in a company newsletter.
The office is exactly what you’d expect from a man worth billions. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing Manhattan like it’s his personal chess board. Furniture that probably costs more than my student loans. Art on the walls that looks like it should be in a museum.
And there he is.
Sheikh Lykan Qahiri .
Standing by the window, his back to me, a dark silhouette against the city skyline.
He doesn’t turn immediately, which gives me an unwelcome moment to notice how his bespoke suit fits his shoulders like it was painted on.
How his hair, dark as midnight, curls just slightly at the nape of his neck.
How he stands with the kind of confidence that comes from never having been told no.
“Miss Hood.”
He turns, and I nearly swallow my tongue.
Photos don’t do this man justice.
Not even close.
His face belongs on currency. All sharp angles and perfect symmetry, with cheekbones that could cut glass and a jaw you could sharpen knives on. His skin is a warm bronze, his eyes so dark they’re almost black, and when they lock onto mine, I forget how to breathe.
“You’re thirty seconds late,” he says.
I’m about to smile weakly...until I realize he isn’t joking.
“I’m s-sorry,” I stammer. “I—”
“I said five minutes.” He glances at his watch, which looks properly expensive. Like, billionaire-expensive, if you know what I mean. “You took five minutes and thirty seconds.”
My mouth opens and closes.
I just sprinted across the building like I was qualifying for the Olympics, and he’s timing me?
“I apologize,” is all I can think of saying. “I promise it won’t—”
“Sit.”
Is it just me or is he inordinately fond of cutting people off?
Honestly, I feel just the slightest bit tempted to refuse, on principle.
But when he raises a brow, my body automatically starts moving, and I guess I’m not as principled as I thought.
I take a seat on the chair he gestured to earlier while the sheikh walks to his desk and leans against it, arms crossed, looking down at me from his considerable height. The power move is so obvious it would be funny if I weren’t busy having a silent meltdown.
“Do you know why you’re here, Miss Hood?”
Several possible answers flash through my mind. Because I’m about to be fired? Because I compared you to a predator in an internal newsletter? Because someone in Vista Lending hate-tattled on me?
“You said something about acquiring Vista Lending,” I manage.
“Yes.” He reaches behind him, picks up a folder, and drops it in my lap. “And several other properties.”
I open the folder, confused. Inside are photos of buildings. Ordinary buildings in what looks like a small town. It takes me a moment to recognize—
My heart stops.
“This is Chisa,” I say, my voice suddenly hoarse.
“Yes.”
I flip through the photos faster. There’s the town square. The old movie theater. The row of shops along Main Street. And—
“Grandma Jackie’s bakery.”
The words escape in a whisper. My fingers tremble against the glossy image of the red-brick building I’ve known all my life. The place where I spent every summer. Where I learned to bake cookies and balance books and crush on boys with messy hair and kind eyes.
“You own this?” I look up at him, disbelief warring with a horrible, creeping dread.
“As of last week.” He says it so casually, like he’s talking about buying a coffee, not uprooting lives. “The entire block, actually. Prime location for redevelopment.”
“Redevelopment?” The word feels like ash in my mouth. “You mean demolition.”
He shrugs, one elegant shoulder rising and falling. “The structures are outdated. Inefficient. The land value far exceeds—”
“That bakery has been in my family for four generations,” I cut in, the words rushing out before I can stop them. “My grandmother lives in the apartment upstairs. The whole town depends on it as a gathering place. You can’t just tear it down.”
“Actually, I can.” His voice is still perfectly even, perfectly controlled. “That’s the thing about ownership, Miss Hood. It grants certain rights—”
“I don’t understand.” I find myself rising unevenly to my feet as I speak, the folder falling to the floor, photos scattering across his pristine carpet. “There are dozens of other places you could develop. Why Chisa? Why that block?”
“Why not?” His gaze is cool, assessing. “It’s a sound business decision.”
“It’s people’s lives, Sheikh Qahiri.” It terrifies me to hear my voice rising with word. I know this man has the power to destroy my career with a snap of his fingers, but I can’t seem to make myself care. “That bakery isn’t just a building. It’s history. It’s community. It’s—”
“Yours?” he supplies. “Is that what you were going to say?”
I clamp my mouth shut, pulse hammering in my ears.
“Because it’s not, Miss Hood. Not anymore.” He pushes off the desk and steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. Close enough that I can smell his cologne, something dark and expensive that makes my stupid traitorous knees go weak again.
“But it could be,” he says softly.
I stare at him, uncomprehending. “What?”
“I want you to marry me.”
He...what?
I must have misheard him.
I must be having some kind of stress-induced auditory hallucination.
But when all he does is stare at me...
“I—what? Are you insane?”
“No.” His eyes never leave mine, dark and intent. “I’m perfectly serious.”
“But that’s—you can’t just—” I’m stammering like an idiot, my brain short-circuiting as it tries to process his words. Where’s the calculating businessman Wall Street worships? The strategic genius who never makes an impulsive move?
How can he not see what he’s proposing is sheer madness?
He’s acting like some kind of villainous wolf from a fairy tale, and he doesn’t even care about being subtle.
Sheikh Qahari takes another step closer, and I instinctively back away.
“This...it doesn’t make sense.” I hate the way my voice quavers...because of how it’s suggesting something else than fear. “You must be joking.”
Something’s changed in his expression, in the way he’s looking at me. Something hungry. Dangerous.
“What do you really want—”
“Excellent question, Ms. Hood.”
The way he purrs the words out makes me swallow hard.
“And one I would rather answer by means of a demonstration.”
What in the world does that—
Aaaah!