CHAPTER 11 （SARAH）
Acryptic text from Michael lands on my phone at dawn, telling me to meet him at a luxury hotel in Midtown.
My heart clenches as I read the short message referencing urgent Redwood data.
He doesn’t explain why we can’t meet at Chen Technologies, or why this can’t be a simple phone call.
He’s either hiding from corporate eyes or stepping onto risky ground.
I spend the morning battling knots in my stomach, forcing my mind to stay on Redwood’s latest investor updates even as curiosity and dread merge into one clenching pulse.
By lunchtime, I slip away from the office, hailing a taxi to the address he sent.
Guilt flickers at the back of my mind. I’m neglecting Redwood’s daily firefighting for this hush-hush meeting.
The taxi lurches through traffic, my phone buzzing with missed calls from staffers.
I stare at the city rushing past, feeling the weight of blackmail and sabotage heavier than ever.
If he’s summoning me here, it must be urgent.
Stepping off the elevator into a plush suite, I spot him hunched over a laptop.
The walls glow with ambient lamplight, highlighting the thick carpet and sleek furnishings, an opulence that jolts me.
It’s so different from the stark environment of Chen Technologies.
My skin prickles with nerves. He straightens when I enter, face etched with tension I’ve rarely seen, and gestures for me to lock the door.
Redwood files sprawl across a polished coffee table, alongside a half-finished glass of water.
My pulse throbs at his nearness, the hush enveloping us.
Why a hotel? Why not his office or anywhere safer?
He says Redwood’s official channels might be compromised.
My chest tightens as I recall the blackmail and sabotage swirling around Redwood.
He indicates a set of hidden expense records on his screen, fresh anomalies that threaten Redwood’s viability.
I drop my bag on a chair, shoulders buzzing with apprehension.
This place feels like a world apart from the corporate tower, as though we’ve slipped into a clandestine pocket where secrets surface uninvited.
We sift through these undisclosed cost anomalies for half an hour, breath hushed, the only noise the soft click of the laptop keyboard.
The numbers are all wrong, showing Redwood hemorrhaging funds in ways that defy our official budgets.
Anxiety laces my thoughts as we cross-reference each new line.
Someone’s burying sabotage in the shadows.
My chest clenches with every suspicious entry.
The tension between us simmers beneath the professional panic.
His focus darts between the screen and my face, as if gauging how close I am to a meltdown.
When I ask how these data sets appeared, he confesses a private tip from someone within Redwood’s supply chain, no names mentioned.
My fingers tremble over the trackpad. Redwood teeters on a razor’s edge already, blackmail threatening to leak those incriminating photos of us.
Now this? My gaze meets his across the table.
The memory of our elevator kiss vibrates in the silence, intensifying our shared dread.
He slides next to me on the couch, leaning in to point out crucial discrepancies.
Our elbows brush. Sparks bolt through my body, echoes of that forbidden moment.
My pulse spikes. We shouldn’t be alone in a place like this.
The hush magnifies every breath, every shift of muscle.
I glimpse how his jaw flexes, lines of stress carved into his expression.
Redwood’s meltdown weighs on him, but something else flares in his eyes—remorse, maybe desire.
My chest tightens, forcing me to concentrate on the screen.
My voice remains low as we discuss Redwood’s offshore payments that don’t match official records.
He murmurs that forging Redwood data is easier if a saboteur controls private ledgers.
Heat pools in my stomach at his nearness.
I keep telling myself to focus. But I can’t forget the last time we were alone, how everything exploded into that desperate kiss.
He shuts the laptop briefly, exhaustion showing in the slump of his shoulders.
His voice trembles with honesty as he admits Redwood’s blackmail intensifies by the day, and we’re nearly out of time.
My hands tense. I whisper that I’m terrified we won’t pull Redwood back from the brink, and the slow burn of his gaze pierces me.
He confesses he fears the same, that Redwood might collapse under sabotage and scandal.
My heart stutters to hear him reveal vulnerability.
Michael Hastings, unstoppable visionary, is scared.
The hush thickens, my stomach clenching with empathy.
We’re both exhausted from battling Redwood’s crises, our personal lines twisted by blackmail and rumor.
He exhales, saying he hates that I’m caught in the crossfire, referencing the photos that haunt us.
A flush creeps into my cheeks. Redwood is bigger than any personal fling, but that blackmail aims to tie our fates together.
He reaches out as though to tuck a stray hair behind my ear, then stops, tension flickering.
My ribs tighten. We’re dangerously close to crossing lines again.
Desire breaks free, surging between us, a force we’ve tried to bury.
My breaths grow shallow. He leans in, hand cupping my cheek, the scent of him swirling around me.
We lock eyes, and the rational part of me screams this can’t happen.
But his lips crash into mine with a fierce urgency, the contact jolting me like a live wire.
I gasp, body clenching, everything in me igniting under that reckless kiss.
Our mouths slide together in a frantic press, an echo of the tension we’ve denied for too long.
My entire body trembles, nails biting his shoulders as though to anchor myself.
He tugs me closer, every worry about Redwood and sabotage dissolving in a haze of raw need.
For a moment, we drown in each other, breath hitching in unison, adrenaline pounding.
Heat throbs low in my core, the pressure of his mouth stirring months of pent-up frustration.
No sense of time, no caution. Just us in this stolen embrace, letting our stress and fear morph into a crushing hunger.
A sudden knock at the door catapults us apart.
My heart slams into my ribs. His chest heaves as he snaps out of the haze, face drawn with alarm.
Reporters? Damien’s men? Fear spikes. My pulse thrashes while he sets a finger to his lips, quietly crossing to the peephole.
Another sharp rap, then voices in the hallway.
I can’t make out their words. Anxiety seizes me.
Redwood can’t afford more scandal. If the press sees us in a private suite, we’re done.
He gestures for me to stay silent. My stomach knots.
The moment drags on, and finally the footsteps retreat.
We exchange shaky looks. We’re both rattled.
The last time someone threatened Redwood, we nearly lost everything.
We can’t risk more exposure. The sudden terror slams us back to reality.
He double-checks the lock, jaw clenched.
My body still buzzes from the kiss, but dread overshadows it.
We force ourselves to refocus on Redwood’s files.
My mind whirls, a swirl of leftover need and new panic.
If we let our guard down, Redwood is finished.
We boot the laptop again, ignoring how my hands shake.
He suggests we store these uncovered expense logs in a secure offline drive, away from the office network that might be compromised.
I nod, heart thudding. Our voices are hushed, each word thick with unspoken emotion.
My chest tightens remembering the taste of him, the way the tension ignited so fast. But Redwood first. We gather the data, scanning each entry one last time.
The sabotage is clear—someone manipulates Redwood’s finances to look unfixable.
My nails clench the edge of the couch. We vow to keep these logs secret until we can expose whoever’s forging Redwood’s downfall.
He stands, rummaging for a spare flash drive while I close out incriminating windows.
Each soft click resonates in this hush of plush carpets and golden lamps.
He slides the flash drive into his pocket, face still flushed from our near-collision.
My heart pounds at the sight. He’s as rattled as I am.
Redwood’s sabotage demands we bury our personal chaos, at least until we have answers.
We linger a moment, the air pulsing with unspoken feelings.
Then he steels himself, voice tight, telling me we must safeguard Redwood above all else.
My stomach churns. He’s right. Our single stolen kiss in this suite is a distraction Redwood cannot afford.
My body aches with yearning, but logic screams for distance.
The threat at the door proved how easily scandal can pounce.
I swallow, nodding that we’ll keep everything under wraps, no matter how strong the pull between us.
He exhales, shoulders sagging. We’re cornered.
We want to trust each other, but Redwood’s meltdown and blackmail make trust dangerous.
We share a lingering glance, hearts thrumming, then gather the papers scattered across the table.
I slip out alone, hugging the folder of sanitized Redwood data to my side.
The hallway is empty, but every sound sets me on edge.
This is insane. The elevator ride down is a swirl of conflicting emotions—arousal, fear, guilt.
I catch my reflection in the mirrored walls: flushed cheeks, eyes too bright.
That near-kiss still vibrates through me, a dangerously addictive sensation.
My conscience screams Redwood can’t survive another scandal, especially not with the blackmailer lurking.
The doors slide open to the lobby, elegantly lit, front desk staff politely ignoring my tension.
I nod briskly, stepping onto the busy street.
Cold air slaps my cheeks, clearing some haze.
Focus on Redwood. Yet my body still tingles with the memory of his lips.
I stride to the curb, hailing a taxi. Manhattan’s blur of neon and noise envelops me.
My phone buzzes with office messages, but all I can think about is how close we came to losing ourselves in that hotel suite.
Redwood remains on the brink, and I vow not to let a single moment of desire overshadow everything we’ve built.
I slip into the taxi, glancing back at the gleaming hotel.
My mind spins with both dread and forbidden excitement, determined to keep Redwood in my sights, no matter how my heart aches for him.