Chapter 11 - Kirsten
I would rather chew glass than ask Menlow for help.
It’s been twenty-four hours since our fight, and I’m still furious. He had no right to act that way. No right to drag me out of the break room like I was a misbehaving child or to dictate who I can and cannot talk to.
Derek was just being friendly. That’s it. Nothing more.
And even if it was more—which it wasn’t—that’s none of Menlow’s business. Our marriage is a piece of paper. A legal formality supposedly designed to keep me safe. It doesn’t give him ownership over my social interactions.
I glare at my computer screen and try to focus on the contract in front of me. The numbers swim together. I’ve been working on this new assignment all morning, and I’m no closer to understanding it than when I started.
This task landed on my desk at 9:00 a.m. courtesy of Marcus. Something about supplier liability clauses and indemnification language. It’s not data analysis. It’s legal jargon wrapped in corporate speak, and I have no framework for evaluating it.
Menlow would know exactly what to do.
I shove that thought aside and keep reading.
The morning crawls by. Every time I think I’ve figured something out, I discover another layer of complexity that sends me back to square one. My notes are a mess of crossed-out lines and question marks. My coffee has gone cold. My head is pounding.
Menlow works silently at his desk. We haven’t spoken since I stormed out yesterday. When I came in this morning, he gave me a curt nod and nothing else. Fine by me. I don’t need his conversation. I don’t need his help.
I don’t need anything from him.
By noon, I’m ready to scream. The deadline for this assignment is five o’clock today. Marcus made that very clear when he dropped it on my desk and made a point of stating there would be no extensions. Because the universe apparently delights in my suffering.
I take a deep breath and read the same paragraph for the fifteenth time. Something about consequential damages and limitation of liability. The words might as well be in ancient Greek.
The clock on my computer reads 2:47 PM.
Two hours and thirteen minutes until the deadline.
I am so screwed.
I read the paragraph again. Consequential damages.
Limitation of liability. Indemnification provisions.
Each term sends me down a rabbit hole of legal definitions that only raise more questions.
Without understanding how these clauses interact with our existing contracts, I can’t assess whether they’re acceptable or not.
The smart thing to do would be to ask for help.
The stubborn thing to do would be to keep suffering in silence.
I’ve always been stubborn. It’s gotten me through a lot in life. But stubbornness won’t save me from missing this deadline. Stubbornness won’t impress the board. Stubbornness won’t prove that I deserve this promotion on my own merits.
I swallow hard and stand up from my desk.
Walking over to Menlow feels like a march to the guillotine. Every step is an admission of defeat. Every inch brings me closer to acknowledging that I need him.
I hate this. I hate all of this.
I clear my throat before I say, “Menlow.”
He looks up from his computer. His face betrays nothing.
“Can I interrupt for a minute?” The words scrape against my throat. “There’s a section in the liability review I can’t make sense of.”
He leans back in his chair and studies me. I brace myself for a smug comment. A reminder that he offered to help yesterday, and I refused. An I-told-you-so delivered with that infuriating calm of his.
Instead, he just asks, “Which section?”
I swallow hard and explain, “The indemnification language. It conflicts with our standard agreements, but I don’t know how to flag the discrepancy.”
“Pull it up. Let me see.”
I return to my desk and open the document as he follows.
“Here.” I point to the relevant clause. “This paragraph specifically.”
He leans in to read, with one hand bracing on my desk. His shoulder hovers inches from mine. I focus on the screen and ignore the way his body heat seeps through the fabric of my shirt.
“Third-party liability transfer,” he explains after a moment. “They’re pushing risk onto us in case a subcontractor causes damage. Our standard position rejects these outright, but we can negotiate depending on the vendor’s strategic value.”
“So I flag it as unacceptable?”
“Flag it for legal review. Reference Section 12.3 in our standard agreement as the conflict point. Legal handles the rest.”
That’s it. A thirty-second explanation that would have saved me hours of frustration.
“What else?” he asks.
I hesitate. Three more clauses I couldn’t parse. Three more questions I was too proud to ask this morning.
“A few other spots,” I admit. “If you have time.”
“Show me.”
We work through each clause together. He explains without condescension, filling gaps in my knowledge with clear, practical guidance. By the time we’re done, the document finally makes sense.
“Thank you,” I tell him when he straightens up.
“You have less than two hours. Better get moving.”
No smugness. No commentary. Just a fact.
He returns to his desk, and I throw myself into the work.
The clauses that confused me before now click into place.
I flag issues, compile recommendations, and organize my findings with a speed that surprises even me.
My photographic memory helps—once I understand a concept, I can recall every relevant detail without rechecking my notes.
I send the completed review to Marcus at 5:03 PM. Three minutes late, but thorough enough that I doubt anyone will complain.
I slump back in my chair and let out a long breath. Done. Finally done.
Except I’m not actually done. Marcus dropped off two more files this afternoon while I was buried in the liability review. They sit on my desk now, thick and accusatory, waiting for attention. The deadline isn’t until next week, but I’m already behind.
I should go home. Eat something. Sleep. Come back fresh tomorrow.
Instead, I open the first file and start reading.
Menlow left about half an hour ago. He grabbed his jacket without a word and walked out. I was too focused to acknowledge his departure, which suited me fine. The less we interact, the better.
The office is quiet now. Most of the building has cleared out. I like it this way—no distractions, no interruptions, and no witnesses to my stubborn determination.
I work through the first file and start on the second. My eyes burn and my neck aches, but I’m making progress.
The sound of the door opening nearly sends me out of my chair.
Menlow walks in carrying a folder, looking just as surprised to see me as I am to see him.
“Burning the midnight oil?” he asks.
I glance at the clock. 8:47 PM. Not quite midnight, but close enough.
“Getting ahead on next week’s assignments.”
“Marcus gave you more work today?”
“He dropped these off this afternoon. I figured I’d make a dent while I’m here.”
He sets his folder on his desk and opens a drawer. “You’ve been at it for twelve hours.”
“I’m aware.”
“That’s not sustainable.”
“Neither is falling behind. Besides, you’re here this late.”
“I came back for board prep materials,” he says, pulling out a thick binder. “But since we’re both here, we might as well leave together when you’re done.”
“You don’t have to wait. I can call a car.”
“We live in the same building. It’s practical.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it. He has a point. A logical, reasonable point that I can’t dispute without sounding petty.
“Fine. Give me another hour.”
He settles into his desk and opens his laptop. The click of his keyboard joins the mechanical noise of the building’s ventilation system. We work in parallel silence, two stubborn people who refuse to quit before the other.
I try to focus on my file. Try being the operative word.
Because now that we’re here, in this cramped space all alone, I’m all too aware of him.
He’s removed his jacket and draped it over his chair. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, exposing forearms I shouldn’t be noticing. His tie hangs loose around his collar. A few strands of hair have fallen across his forehead, and he keeps pushing them back with an absent gesture.
He looks rumpled. Human. Less like the polished CEO who tricked me into marriage and more like a man who works too hard because he doesn’t know how to stop.
I drag my attention back to my screen. The words refuse to cooperate. My brain is fried from twelve hours of contracts, clauses, and corporate terminology.
“Done.”
His voice cuts through my haze. I look up to find him closing his laptop and pushing back from his desk.
“Already?”
“I work fast when I have motivation.” He stands and stretches, lifting his arms above his head. His back arches. His shirt pulls against his chest, and I catch a glimpse of his flat stomach where the fabric rides up.
I snap my gaze back to my monitor. Heat floods my cheeks.
“You finished?” he asks.
“Almost.” My voice comes out too high, and I have to clear my throat before I add, “Just wrapping up.”
I stare at my screen without seeing it. Every nerve in my body is firing. This is ridiculous. He stretched. People stretch. It doesn’t mean anything.
But I can still see the image burned into my mind. The arch of his back. The pull of fabric across muscle. The strip of skin above his belt, and that line of wiry hair that disappeared into his pants…
Get it together.
“Kirsten?”
He’s moved closer. I didn’t hear him approach. When I spin in my chair, he’s standing right there, barely two feet away.
“What?” I manage.
“Your screen is off.”
I glance back. He’s right. The monitor has gone to sleep, displaying nothing but black. I have no idea how long I’ve been staring at it.
“I was thinking,” I explain weakly.
“About what?”
You. Your forearms. Your stomach. The way you look when you’re not buttoned up and perfect.
“Work stuff.”
He tilts his head, studying me. “You’re flushed.”
“The heating must have kicked on.”
“It’s thermostat-controlled. Sixty-eight degrees, same as always.”
Damn his attention to detail.
“I’m fine. Just tired.” I stand too quickly, and the movement brings me closer to him instead of farther away. Close enough to see the stubble shadowing his jaw. Close enough that his cologne wraps around me.
I should step back, create distance, and reassert the boundaries we both agreed to.
But my feet don’t move.
“Something’s bothering you,” he notes.
“Nothing’s bothering me.”
“Then why won’t you look at me?”
I force myself to meet his eyes, which turns out to be a huge mistake. His gaze pins me in place, searching my face for answers I refuse to give.
“There,” I say. “I’m looking.”
“Your breathing just changed.”
“It did not.”
“It did. And your pulse.” He reaches out and brushes his thumb against the side of my neck, featherlight. “Your pulse is racing.”
I jerk away from his touch. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t… notice things.”
A ghost of a smile crosses his face. “I always notice things. Especially when it comes to you.” His voice drops lower as he inches closer. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
I should tell him to stop. Every logical part of my brain screams at me to say the words.
But logic has nothing to do with the heat pooling in my stomach. Nothing to do with the way my body sways toward his without permission.
“I’m not telling you to stop,” I breathe.
He doesn’t ask twice.
He cups the back of my neck and pulls me to him, and then his mouth is on mine.
I know how he kisses. I remember it from that night at the bar, the night that started all of this.
But somehow it’s different now. Hotter and filled with need, like we’ve both been waiting for this moment without admitting it.
I grab the front of his shirt and yank him closer. He makes a low sound against my lips and changes the angle, deepening the kiss until I can’t think straight. His other hand finds my hip, and he slides his fingers along the fabric of my skirt.
This is a mistake. A terrible, wonderful mistake.
I don’t care.
I glide my hands up his chest, over his shoulders, into his hair. He groans and backs me against the desk. The edge digs into my thighs, but I barely notice. All I can focus on is his mouth, his hands, the solid heat of his body pressed against mine.
He kisses me like he’s starving for it. Like he’s been thinking about this as much as I have. Every stroke of his tongue is intentional. Every touch drives me higher. I gasp against his mouth, my fingers twisted in his hair, completely lost.
He slides his hand from my hip to my waist and pulls me tighter against him. His heart hammers against my palms, just as hard as mine. We’re both breathless. Both burning.
Both in way over our heads.