Chapter 7
POV: Camille?
The next day…
The hum of the conference room was deceptively calm. The blinds were drawn against the Manhattan morning skyline.
And me? Well, I was seated at Michael Vanderbilt’s right hand side.
I told myself it was because I’d been assigned to this case.
It was one of the biggest antitrust suits the company had faced in years.
The Department of Justice had questions, and Michael wanted every detail airtight.
I was the junior associate who had lived and breathed this case file for the past week, so of course I belonged here.
But logic couldn’t even slow my pulse.
Michael Vanderbilt didn’t just walk into a room. He claimed it.
Focus, Camille. You’re a lawyer, not a schoolgirl.
Except every time his arm shifted on the chair’s armrest, I felt it like static on my skin.
Every time his eyes flickered my way when I spoke, my voice wanted to falter.
And when he leaned in just slightly, scanning the documents I’d prepared, his cologne flooded my senses until I forgot what breathing was supposed to feel like.
This was professional. I reminded myself again. Professional.
But when his thigh clothed brushed mine under the table, just the faintest graze, maybe even accidental or maybe not—I nearly dropped my pen.
The meeting dragged on for hours.
Executives asked questions and Michael answered with with a calm tone and every so often he deferred to me.
“Miss Martens prepared the memo on that,” he directed.
And then dozens of heads turned my way.
My stomach dropped, but my voice steadied. “Yes, the key precedent here is United States v. Tech Core Industries. We can use it to argue that our acquisition doesn’t reduce consumer choice.”
Michael’s mouth curved into a smile, it was barely there but it was like I’d passed a test. His test. “Well put.”
Heat flushed my cheeks every single time after a compliment from him.
Praise from anyone else would have been a line on my resume. But from Michael, it felt like a secret I wasn’t supposed to want.
When the meeting ended, the room emptied quickly, executives scattered to take calls and lawyers hurried to their next tasks.
I got up to leave but then heard his cool tone.
“Stay a moment,” he said.
It was not a request. It was a command.
I froze, then nodded, freezing in place.
The door clicked shut behind the last person who exited and suddenly, the vast conference room felt too small and too intimate.
Michael stood to his feet, slipping his hands into his pockets as he circled the room slowly, like a predator at ease in his own territory. All while his gaze never left mine. “You handled yourself well today.”
“Thank you.” I mustered out.
“You’ve been working late.”
It wasn’t a question.
He already knew.
“I want this case airtight,” I said quickly. “I can handle the hours.”
His brows arched, and the ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Ambitious, that’s a dangerous quality in a lawyer.”
He’d said that before, the day we met.
But now the words slid over me differently, laced with something sharper…something realer…something dangerous in itself.
I tried to hold his gaze, but it was like staring into a storm. My lungs tightened. “You said once that you like control.”
“I did.” He stopped at the head of the table, leaning one broad hand on the polished surface, his body angled toward me. “And I like results and you, Camille have given me both.”
I swallowed hard.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty, it pulsed as though the air itself was waiting for something to snap.
“Come here, Camille.”
The way he said my name—low, deliberate, and possessive—well, it unraveled me.
My legs moved before my brain caught up, carrying me toward him with the sound of my heels echoing across the marble floor.
Michael reached out, plucking the folder easily from my hands, and set it aside. His fingers lingered a second too long against mine—warm, deliberate, electric.
“You’ve done more than just prove yourself. You’ve shown me you can handle proximity even without intimacy.”
My breath hitched. “Proximity?”
“To me.” His eyes burned into mine. “And that matters, because this”, he gestured faintly to the skyscraper view behind him, “isn’t just about contracts. It’s about trust.”
I felt my cheeks heat from his comment. “I thought this was professional.”
His mouth curved into that cocked smile again. “It is for now but you know what the contract entails. You’ve reviewed it yourself.”
“And later?”
His silence was answer enough. Then he spoke again, “Tonight, 8 o’clock, you will meet me at Marcelli’s on Fifth. We’ll call it dinner.”
I blinked. “Dinner?”
“A date.” The word left his mouth with quiet finality. “You’ll meet me there.”
“You don’t ask, do you?”
“I don’t need to. I already know that you want to say yes.”
And damn it, I did.
He stepped closer to me—closing the space between us just enough that I could feel the warmth of him near me and his hand slid past my hip slowly until his fingertips grazed over the curve of my ass. His touch was light but it scorched like fire.
I gasped as the sensation wrecked me. “Michael…”
His gaze darkened. “Blush looks good on you,” he whispered with amusement.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think.
The world outside that room ceased to exist and all I knew was the burn of his touch and the promise in his voice.
Then, just as easily as he made me feel something, he stepped back, reclaiming the space between us and separating us again easily. “8 o’clock,” he repeated. “Don’t be late.”
And then he walked out, leaving me trembling.
I sagged into the nearest chair, pressing my palms to my face in disbelief.
What the hell had just happened?
Professional boundaries? Well, they were gone. They were torn apart with a single touch.
And tonight, I was going on a date with Michael Vanderbilt.
A date that wasn’t really a date.
6 months.
That’s all I’d signed for.
So why did it feel like I was already in far deeper than I’d ever intended?