CHAPTER FOURTEEN — DIVIDED LOYALTIES
MARNIE
The break room is full of the clatter of spoons and the forced civility of people who would gladly strangle each other for a better-located cubicle.
I’m at the sink, rinsing my mug, when Walter’s shadow falls across the counter.
Him again? Why is the old man harassing me?
He’s still, pretending to study the coffee selection, but my skin crawls because I know he’s scoping me for weaknesses.
I freeze, hands in the running water, waiting for him to pounce. He doesn’t speak, just watches with that reptile patience, letting the air fill with tension.
It’s Brent who finally breaks the tableau.
My alpha male strides in, looking every inch a confident bastard in a tailored charcoal suit and cufflinks that could pay my rent for a year.
He surveys the room, sees me, sees Walter, and knows instantly what’s happening.
It’s like a sixth sense with him—he can smell confrontation before it’s fully grown.
He crosses to us, placing himself squarely between me and Walter. His voice is smooth but hard-edged. “Ms. Williams, I hope you’re finding everything you need for the McFarland brief?”
I swallow. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Gibson. Just taking a break before the final push.”
Brent’s eyes are on Walter now, cold and blue. “Good to see you, Hoffman. Anything I can help you with? Coffee? Milk? The sugar’s over there.”
Walter gives a brittle smile. “Just reminding Ms. Williams of proper records protocol.”
Brent lets the silence stretch, then says, “Ms. Williams has my explicit authorization to access any files she needs, now or in the future. If you have concerns, bring them to me.” His tone brooks no argument.
The old man’s lips press into a thin line. He picks up a paper packet of sugar, twists it until it splits, and pours it into his mug with slow precision. “Of course,” he says, but the look he gives me is pure poison.
He leaves, and the temperature in the room rises ten degrees.
Brent turns to me, lowers his voice. “You okay?”
I try to laugh, but it comes out thin. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
His hand finds the small of my back, light but protective. The touch is fire, but I force myself to stand tall. “Thank you for that,” I say, and mean it.
He leans close, voice just for me. “Be careful. That fucker’s a snake. We’ve been trying to get him out of the partnership at Gibson Grant for years, but he’s been here so long that it’s near impossible.”
I nod, heart banging in my chest. “Got it.”
Brent looks at me a second longer, searching my face, then lets his hand fall and walks out, and I take a deep breath. God, that was so stressful, and it was literally a coffee-break encounter.
The rest of the day passes in a haze of adrenaline and spreadsheets. I can’t focus. I can’t forget the look in Walter’s eyes, or the way Brent stepped in—like I was already his responsibility, or maybe his favorite person in the world.
At 4:52, my phone buzzes. It’s a message from James:
My office. Now.
I grab my notepad, ignore the knowing glances from the admin pool, and walk down the corridor, head high.
The door is open, but James waits inside, pacing, jaw set.
The man is gorgeous, as usual, with his dark hair flowing back from a high forehead, and that big body clad in a perfectly-fitted suit.
When I enter, he closes the door behind me with a click. There are no greetings this time. Just a printout on the desk and James, looking intense.
He gestures to the chair. “Sit.”
I do, and he leans on the edge of the desk, arms folded.
“I heard about your little meeting with Hoffman,” he says, not a question.
I stare at the floor. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make trouble.”
He sighs, rubs his eyes. “You didn’t. He’s been looking for an excuse to challenge management ever since Carter left. You’re just a convenient target.”
I bite my lip, unsure what to say.
He comes around the desk, kneels beside me so we’re eye to eye. “You’re not in trouble, Marnie. But you need to be careful. This place is full of people who want to see you fail.”
My voice shakes. “Why though? I haven’t done anything!”
He studies my face, and for the first time, I see him without the armor—just a man, tired and raw. “You haven’t, but people get jealous. They see how pretty you are. How smart you are. I’d be careful.”
I stop.
“But that old guy can’t possibly care about those things.”
James shrugs his broad shoulders.
“I don’t know because this shit can be hidden. Maybe he has a granddaughter who wanted to work as a paralegal, but you got the job and she didn’t. I don’t know.”
I pause.
“But why does it matter to you? I mean, you’re the boss.”
James inhales before fixing me with a look.
“It matters because I can’t stop thinking about you, sweetheart,” he says, and the words punch the air out of my lungs.
“Because every time I see you, I want to fuck you on this desk and also protect you from every asshole in this building. It’s not rational, but it’s true. ”
I swallow, my cheeks burning. “James, we agreed—”
He holds up a hand. “I know. I know we said no workplace drama. But I can’t help it.
” He drops his hand, looks at me, and there’s something almost vulnerable there.
“Let me take you somewhere safe. My place tonight. We can talk about the evidence, or do nothing, or whatever you want. I just need to see you outside of this war zone.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, but alarm bells are going off. Is it okay to hang out with one man alone? It’s always been the three of us together. Is this tete a tete against the rules? What’s going on?
But James merely nods, looking very masculine. “Good. Six o’clock. I’ll text you the address.”
I swallow, nod, and leave, heart in my throat.
The sun is setting, the office shadows growing longer and more menacing.
I’m still confused, and my mind fills with questions that I can’t answer.
What in the world is going on? Is our trio becoming a duo?
Or is this completely normal, and I’m expected to have sex with each man individually, as well as together? What are the rules?
As I gather my bag and shut down my computer, my phone buzzes again. I check the screen and my stomach flips.
Brent: “Drinks at my place? 7pm. Just us. Bring the files.”
A second later:
James: “Change of plans. Nine at my place instead. Can’t wait to see you.”
For a moment, I stare at the screen, both messages glowing like hazards. Holy shit, is this really happening? Or maybe they both know that I’m meeting the other person? My brain is tangled, and clearly, the game is changing, but I’m not sure who’s playing whom anymore.
But I do know one thing: The next move is mine.
I pull on my coat, step into the night, and let the cold air wake me up.
This is going to get messy.
And I can’t wait.