Chapter 10
POV: Camille ?
The next day…
The office was supposed to feel safe, it was supposed to be a neutral and professional space.
But it didn’t anymore.
Not when every corner felt haunted by him.
Michael Vanderbilt wasn’t everywhere in a literal sense because he was far too powerful and far too busy to linger outside the legal department but the memory of him was.
His gaze—his voice–even the ghost of his hands on me.
And that morning, as I sat at my desk buried in case files, I felt the desire coil inside me.
I tapped my pen against a large stack of briefs, trying to focus on the antitrust statutes I was supposed to be reading. My computer screen glowed then faded, as I left it idle for too long.
I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t even think straight.
Because he was here.
And he wasn’t at my desk or even in my line of sight but I had seen him walk past my office earlier, his eyes flickering briefly toward me before moving on.
It had been a 3 second glance at most, yet it was enough to ignite my pulse and also enough to remind me that I’d felt his body tremble because of my mouth. That reminder lived under my skin now.
“Camille,” Marsha’s voice sounded from behind me. “Did you finish the compliance review?”
I startled, nearly dropping my pen. “Almost,” I lied, faking a smile.
“Almost doesn’t cut it.” Then she disappeared into her office with an irritated grunt.
I exhaled shakily.
Get it together, Camille. You’re here to work. You’re here because this job pays the bills and chips away at student loans and keeps you afloat in a city designed to drown people like you—you are not here for him.
But my heart refused to listen.
By lunchtime, the air in the department felt almost too heavy to breathe.
I ducked into a smaller conference room with a salad I had no intention of eating. I needed the quiet and I needed distance.
I opened my notebook, intending to outline arguments for next week’s filing. Instead, my pen drifted into writing something else.
Last night was supposed to be contained but it wasn’t contained at all, was it? And his words, well they were…weird? And my response? Well, it shook something loose in me that I didn’t even know existed?
I wrote faster.
The contract is supposed to protect me. 6 months. But it doesn’t protect me from wanting him—from wanting what isn’t part of the deal. His gaze in the office—his attention when he shouldn’t give it and the way he looked at me before he kissed me.
The pen stilled in my hand and I slammed the notebook shut, as if hiding the words could erase them.
And then the door clicked open.
And my gut hollowed as my eyes met his.
Michael leaned against the frame, jacket draped over one arm, tie loosened at his throat, his eyes found me instantly. “Working through lunch?”
“Trying to.” I gulped.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “Don’t let Marsha bury you,” he said, circling the table with measured steps. “She forgets what balance looks like.”
“I can handle it.”
“I know you can.” He stopped across from me, sliding his jacket over the back of a chair before sitting down. “I’ve seen it.”
“You–you—watch me?” I stumbled out.
His mouth curved into a calculated smile. “Of course.”
My pulse thudded so loudly I was sure he could hear it. I fumbled with my fork. “We’re in the office.”
“And?”
“And this isn’t professional.”
His gaze changed but his tone stayed calm. “Professional is a mask we wear, you know that as well as I do.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think we should keep mixing this.”
“You already are.”
The truth of it cut through me, sharp and undeniable.
Because he was right.
The office—the contract—the dinners—the kisses. Him.
Michael leaned forward, as his forearms braced onto the table. “Tell me you don’t think about it—about me even while here—about what happened.”
My silence betrayed me.
The faintest smile tugged at his lips. “That’s what I thought.”
I wanted to hate him for his certainty. Instead, I hated myself for needing it.
The rest of the day blurred between responsibility and distraction.
I threw myself into my work documents, redlined paragraphs until my eyes burned, and answering emails. But every time Michael passed, my focus shattered.
By late afternoon, I escaped to the ladies’ room just to breathe. I gripped the sink, staring at my reflection, blonde hair pulled into a bun, blue eyes too bright, lips pressed thin. I looked like a woman barely holding herself together.
“This can’t happen. You can’t let this happen. Focus, Camille. It’s a contract. A job. That’s it.” I whispered to the mirror.
But even as I said it, I knew it was a lie.
Because the moment I stepped back into the hallway, he was there—watching me—waiting.
Michael stood by the glass windows with his cellphone pressed to his ear. His eyes found mine mid-conversation, it was just a glance but it was enough—enough to send my stomach flipping.
He didn’t smile, he didn’t need to. The look alone told me everything.
That he saw me—that he knew I saw him and that whatever this was, it was growing—whether I was ready or not.
By the time the office emptied, I was exhausted and not from work but from restraint.
I stayed late, pretending to finalize a memo, though really I was hiding from the inevitable.
But when the elevator chimed softly and his footsteps echoed down the hall, I knew hiding was useless. He stopped at my desk as his eyes swept over me with that same calm intensity that unraveled me piece by piece. Every. Single. Time. “Still here, Camille?”
“So are you,” I countered.
His mouth curved faintly. “Touche.”
Silence hovered between us.
“You should go home,” he said finally.
“You should too.”
We both knew neither of us would move until the other did.
Finally, he leaned in slightly, a cocked grin on his face. “Temptation is a dangerous thing, Camille.” And then, unexpectedly, his tone softened. “You think this is about power—-about money and that I only see you in the way I’ve seen others before you but you’re wrong.”
That startled me. “What do you mean?”
He studied me for a moment. “Because you strike me as…different.”
“Different how?” I gulped.
His gaze didn’t waver from me. “Complex,” he shrugged, looking at me.
“You don’t look at me like a billionaire and you don’t measure me in dollar signs or headlines. You don’t flinch when I push and I know you’ve suffered—I see it in your eyes and that… that makes you more real than anyone I’ve had the pleasure of knowing.”
No one had ever said something like that to me, no one had seen me so clearly.
My heart pounded in my ribs. “Michael…”
He tapped his fingers along the tabletop, his gaze never leaving mine. “That’s why you’re dangerous, Camille, because I can stop pretending around you.”
The room spun.
And then, without another word, he straightened, his mask sliding back into place. “Go home, Camille.” He walked away without looking back.
I sat frozen at my desk, uncertain of what to do.
Should I have a stroke? Should I run out of here? Should I cry? I was uncertain of what emotion would take over but I knew one thing—he was right.
I was already giving in.
And no matter how hard I tried to fight it, I knew the temptation would only grow stronger.