Chapter 23 Tessa
TESSA
Amonth after the global launch, Rule One of the Protocol is proving to be the hardest: no physical contact within a two-mile radius of the office.
I recite it in my head as I pull my beat-up sedan into the Mosaic underground parking garage on a humid Monday morning.
Two miles means the separation starts the second we wake up.
Whenever they manage to sneak over to spend the night, we have to leave my apartment in strict, agonizing shifts the next morning so no one sees us arriving together.
Ethan leaves first at seven, Owen at seven-fifteen, and Asher at seven-thirty.
I leave last, taking a different route, parking on a different level, and taking an entirely different elevator bank.
It’s systematic, secure, and absolute torture.
I kill the engine and check my reflection in the rearview mirror. My hair is pulled back in a severe, professional bun, my lips are painted in a shade called Boardroom Red, and my silk blouse is buttoned to the throat to hide the faint purple bruise Ethan left on my collarbone.
“Game face, Tessa,” I whisper.
I grab my bag and step out into the stifling warmth of the garage.
My stomach gives a violent lurch—a wave of nausea that’s become my annoying morning companion for the last week. I swallow it down; the impending Series B funding round has been incredibly stressful.
I walk toward the elevators, my pulse stuttering the second the doors open because all three of them are already standing inside.
It’s incredibly rare that our timings overlap this perfectly. They’re waiting in the glass elevator—Ethan in a charcoal suit looking at his phone, Asher staring blankly at the floor, and Owen leaning against the back wall spinning his badge on his finger.
I step inside.
“Good morning,” I say, keeping my voice cool and detached.
Ethan looks up. His eyes, usually warm and possessive when we’re alone, go completely cold and flat.
“Morning, Tessa,” he says. Not Tess. Not Sweetheart.
“Good morning, Miss Hartley,” Asher says mechanically.
“Hey, T,” Owen offers with a polite nod.
The doors slide shut, sealing us in.
For a second, the silence is heavy, thick with the kind of static that usually precedes a lightning strike. I can smell them—a potent mix of expensive soap, black coffee, and clean sweat that makes my mouth water and my knees weak.
I stand at the front of the elevator, staring at the numbers as they climb. I can feel Ethan’s gaze burning into the back of my neck. He’s looking at the stray wisp of hair escaping my bun. He’s thinking about pulling the pin out.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Group Chat: SYSTEM OVERRIDE (Encrypted)
Owen: This is agony. I want to touch you.
Asher: Proximity alert. The camera in the elevator is active. Maintain distance.
Ethan: Turn around, Tessa. Just look at me.
I bite the inside of my cheek and refuse to turn around. If I look at him, I’ll crumble and throw myself at him, cameras be damned.
Me: Behave, Mr. Branson.
I hear a soft snort from behind me—Owen.
The elevator dings on the fortieth floor, and the doors slide open.
“After you,” Ethan says, gesturing to the hallway. His voice is strictly professional, but as I walk past him, his arm brushes mine—a microscopic touch that sends a sharp thrill straight down my spine.
I walk out into the bustling lobby with my head held high, ignoring the way my body is screaming for him. This is the price of admission. This is the exact cost of loving the Phantom Trio.
I head straight down the server room hallway. I know Owen is following me, and I know exactly where the blind spot in the camera coverage is.
I pull open the door to the broom closet.
The closet smells of lemon polish and hot dust. Theoretically designed to store cleaning supplies, this small, narrow space tucked behind the server racks has served a much more vital function for the last thirty days: it’s our daily pressure valve.
“Quiet,” Owen murmurs against my mouth the second the door clicks shut.
His hands grip my waist, lifting me until my feet dangle an inch off the linoleum.
“I am quiet,” I hiss through clenched teeth, wrapping my legs around his suit-clad hips. “You’re the one who moans.”
“I don’t moan,” he corrects, biting my lower lip. “I growl. It’s masculine.”
“It’s loud,” I whisper-shout. “Sarah from HR is literally in the break room ten feet away.”
“Sarah wears noise-canceling headphones,” Owen dismisses, pressing me back against the metal shelving unit until a stack of paper towels wobbles dangerously. “I checked. We have a window.”
“You checked?”
“I walked right past the break room,” he grins. “She’s got her headphones clamped on and she’s blasting a true-crime podcast. She can’t hear us.”
I laugh, breathless and scandalized, as his hands slide up under my skirt. He finds the lace of my panties—the red ones he bought me last week—and groans into my neck.
“God, I missed you,” he says, his voice thick.
“Owen, we saw each other in the elevator two minutes ago.”
“That was public,” he says, the pad of his thumb drags over my center through the silk. “That was Coworker Owen, and I hate Coworker Owen. He has to talk about KPIs and not touch you, which is pure torture.”
I tip my head back, my vision blurring while he finds his rhythm. The risk is an absolute drug.
The sheer, unadulterated stupidity of doing this in a closet while the entire company buzzes outside is terrifying, yet completely addictive.
This is our new normal. It’s been a month since the launch, a month since Harper left, and a month since we locked my apartment door and surrendered to this exhausting routine.
Layer one is the public face. I’m Tessa Hartley, Lead Brand Strategist. I sit in meetings, present data, argue with developers, and nod politely at the Phantom Trio when I pass them in the hall.
Layer two is the Unit. We live in the shadows, existing purely in the stolen moments between agenda items. It’s a glance across the conference table that lasts a second too long.
It’s a shared Google Doc where Asher leaves notes that have nothing to do with code—Hydrate.
You look tired. It’s Ethan calling me into his office for a performance review that actually involves him locking the door, lifting me onto his desk, and worshipping me for twenty minutes before sending me back out with mussed hair and a fifteen percent raise.
“Stop,” I gasp, grabbing Owen’s wrists the second I hear footsteps in the hallway. “Someone’s coming.”
We go completely still as the footsteps grow closer, pausing right outside the door.
Owen doesn’t move an inch, but his green eyes dilate, going dark with mischief and lust. He doesn’t look scared at all; he looks absolutely thrilled.
A moment later, the footsteps continue, and the break room door opens and closes.
“Clear,” Owen whispers.
“We have to go back,” I say, pushing against his chest. “We’ve got the Sterling meeting in twenty minutes, and Ethan will kill us if we’re late.”
“Ethan is currently punching something because he can’t be the one in this closet,” Owen smirks.
He kisses me one last time before finally setting me down. He smoothes my skirt, fixes his tie, and runs a hand through his hair, transforming instantly from lover to co-founder.
“You look flushed,” he notes, brushing my cheek.
“I wonder why.”
“Blame the AC,” he murmurs, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Go. I’ll wait two minutes.”
I slip out of the closet into the bright, sterile, and painfully normal hallway. I walk toward the elevators, taking deep breaths until my heart rate drops back to double digits.
My phone buzzes.
Group Chat: SYSTEM OVERRIDE (Encrypted)
Asher: Pulse rate elevated to 115 BPM. Successful extraction?
Ethan: Get to the conference room. Sterling is early. Fix your hair.
Owen: Worth it.
I bite my lip to suppress a smile and quickly fix my hair in the reflection of the elevator doors.
I know I’m playing with fire. But as I walk into the boardroom and spot Ethan at the head of the table—stoic, terrifying, and utterly mine—I realize I have zero intention of putting it out.
I’m just pouring gasoline on it.
Inside the boardroom, the air is cold enough to preserve a steak.
Robert Sterling doesn’t look like a tech investor; he looks like a ruthless senator from a 1950s movie. He’s silver-haired, impeccably suit-clad, and radiates the kind of old money that doesn’t scream, but rather whispers harsh judgments.
He sits at the opposite end of the long mahogany table with his fingers steepled. The smell of his cologne—something musky and thick, like old leather and stale pipe tobacco—drifts across the table.
It hits the back of my throat, oily and cloying, sending a fresh, violent wave of nausea straight to my stomach. I swallow hard, desperately forcing the bile down. Not now, I tell myself. Don’t throw up on the fifty-million-dollar investor.
Ethan sits to my right in full CEO mode, his spine like steel and his face an unreadable mask. Asher is to my left, typing silently on his laptop, while Owen leans back in his chair, playing the role of the charming creative despite the anxious bounce of his leg under the table.
“It’s… colorful,” Sterling finally notes, his voice bone-dry.
“It’s vibrant,” I correct gently, taking shallow breaths through my mouth to avoid the sickening smell of his cologne.
“The data shows that our target users respond to high-contrast visuals and authentic messaging. They don’t want polished corporate speak, Mr. Sterling.
They want connection. They want a tribe. ”
“Tribe,” Sterling repeats, treating the word like it tastes sour. “A bit primitive, isn’t it?”
“It’s human,” Ethan interjects, his deep voice immediately commanding the room. “Mosaic isn’t just an app, Robert. It’s a digital ecosystem for fragmented identities. We connect people based on psychographics, not just demographics.”