Chloe #2
“Eclipse Studios,” says Tristan. He clicks a button on a small remote, and a projector illuminates the screen behind him, showing the makeshift logo the design team developed for the studio.
“So far, this venture only exists in the realm of the theoretical. Today, we’re going to take the first steps toward making it real. ”
As Tristan begins to outline the agenda for the meeting, I almost manage to forget about Iris’s comments at the health club—almost. Work helps me focus my mind. It always has.
Our objective for this meeting is to get the ball rolling.
Eclipse Studios, in order to exist in an official capacity, needs physical space—offices, sound stages.
Each team has been working separately on different facets of the fledgling studio, from its creative ethos to its corporate structure, but in order to really get things started, we need to ground it in real estate.
“I’ve scouted a few locations,” Tristan tells the room at large, flipping to a slide that includes a bulleted list of said sites. “I’d like to suggest that when it comes time to build, we contract with Summit Construction. They’re the best in the state.”
Summit Construction. That’s Spencer Noble’s company.
My reaction is immediate and visceral. My stomach twists, and the words are out before I can stop them. “No. Not Summit.”
Tristan blinks at me, visibly surprised. I can see from the other furrowed brows in the room that my abrupt veto was unexpected.
“From a business standpoint, Summit is just a smart move. They do high-quality work, and I can get the best rates from Spencer, since he’s an old friend. It would be foolish not to utilize that connection.”
I stand up, every muscle in my body tense. A pang shoots through my ankle, and I wince involuntarily, bracing myself against the table.
Tristan notices immediately. Of course he does.
“Are you okay?” The professionalism drops out of his voice at once, replaced with concern. “Chloe?”
I try to brush it off, offering a forced smile to mask the discomfort. “It’s nothing. I just came from the gym. Probably didn’t stretch well enough.”
His expression hardens. For a long moment, there’s silence in the conference room.
When he speaks, his tone leaves no room for argument. “This meeting is over. We’ll resume later.”
I open my mouth to protest, but close it when Tristan shoots me a look.
Now isn’t the time to argue, not in front of our employees.
Everyone swiftly gathers their belongings and exits the conference room.
My own team and Tristan’s team, previously enthusiastic, now disperse quietly, leaving me alone with him.
The door clicks shut, and a heavy silence settles over the room. My fists curl at my sides, nails biting into my palms as frustration rises like a storm inside me.
The embarrassment burns hotter than the frustration, though—embarrassment at appearing weak in front of everyone.
I’ve worked too hard to build my reputation, to make sure no one ever sees a crack in my armor.
Here, at the top of the corporate ladder, there’s no room for vulnerability. No room for mistakes.
I haven’t gotten to this point by letting my infirmities show. And I’m not about to start now.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, my voice echoing in the now-empty conference room. “I’m fine.”
Tristan stands across from me, his presence looming, commanding, even though he isn’t saying a word.
He watches me closely, his brows drawn together, his jaw clenched—a look that I’ve come to recognize as concern, although I wish he’d just keep it to himself.
His gaze is too intense, too knowing, and it makes my skin prickle.
He’s clearly not going to let this one go so easily.
“You obviously aren’t fine,” he insists, his tone firm. “What’s wrong?”
I hesitate, pride rearing its head and demanding that I maintain the image I’ve cultivated—strong, capable, invulnerable.
I don’t need his pity, or his help. But as I shift slightly in my chair, a sharp pain shoots through my calf.
I grit my teeth, and in that moment, I realize there’s no point in pretending anymore. Not with him.
“I hurt my ankle at the gym,” I admit reluctantly.
Before I can gauge his reaction, Tristan moves.
He strides toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that face the hallway, his long, purposeful steps carrying him with a sense of authority that commands attention.
With a flick of his wrist, he closes the blinds, shutting us off from the rest of the office and, more importantly, from any curious onlookers.
Then, without a word, he turns and crosses the room back to me, his eyes dark and focused.
He crouches in front of me, his hands surprisingly gentle as they slide under my legs, lifting me effortlessly onto the table.
I suck in a breath, startled by the sudden proximity, my senses overwhelmed by the warmth of his body and the rhythm of his movements.
He positions a chair in front of me and sits down, his attention fully on me now.
I watch, heart hammering, as he lifts my ankle.
His fingers brush against my skin as he inspects the swelling with a practiced, almost clinical precision.
His touch is firm but gentle, careful in a way that makes my chest tighten.
“It doesn’t seem serious,” he says. “Just a sprain.”
I huff a breath. “I could’ve told you that.”
My face burns, not from the pain in my ankle, but from the growing awareness of how close he is. How his hands, even now, linger near my skin, his presence sending heat spiraling through me.
“How did it happen?” he asks.
“It was stupid. I just missed a step while I was running.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Missed a step?”
“I got distracted during my workout,” I admit.
There’s a beat of silence, and when I glance up, I see a flicker of something new in his eyes. His jaw tightens ever so slightly, and I wonder what’s going through his mind.
“Oh,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “Distracted?”
It’s subtle, but I don’t miss the jealousy in his tone, and it hits me suddenly that he thinks some other man caught my eye. I see it in the way his mouth tightens, the way his posture stiffens. It sends a surge of indignation through me.
How fucking dare he?
I lean forward, possessive irritation bubbling to the surface.
How dare he feel jealous when I’m the one who should feel that way?
After all, I’m the one who had to listen to his ex-girlfriend laying claim to him, confidently predicting the end of our marriage as if it were nothing more than a temporary inconvenience.
“What distracted you?” he asks, his voice measured but carrying an edge.
“Oh, not much.” I bite out the words, my tone dripping with sarcasm. “Just hearing your ex-girlfriend talk about how you’re going to get back together in three years, once you’re free of this marriage.”