Chapter 10
Wednesday had been a relentless blur—a whirlwind of meetings, emails, and endless analysis. But the numbers didn’t lie. Black Friday and Cyber Monday had shattered expectations, setting a new record for the magazine’s winter issue. A win. A massive one.
My team had worked tirelessly, and I made sure they knew it by closing the meeting with praise that was earned, specific, and deserved. This was leadership. But the moment I stepped back into my office, the adrenaline faded. The silence rushed in. Then the ache.
Creed’s promise to call had been just that—a promise. One I no longer built my days around.
It had been a week since Thanksgiving. A week since the kiss that hadn’t fixed anything but had cracked something open. At first, I’d given him space. Then patience. Then understanding. What I stopped giving him was access to my emotional center.
He hadn’t been in the office all week. Not once.
For a man like Creed Kirkland—who tracked every moving part of his empire like a chessboard—that absence wasn’t chaos.
It was avoidance. But I didn’t chase it.
I didn’t text. I didn’t ask questions through other people.
I didn’t invent excuses on his behalf. I let the silence exist. And that, strangely, hurt less than waiting.
I turned away from the window, glanced at my phone—out of habit—then turned it face down.
The door to my office opened without ceremony pulling me from my thoughts, and I looked up to see Mavis standing in the doorway wearing a blood-red pantsuit.
Her eyes were sharp, scanning me like she always did when she knew something was off.
She didn’t even have to say it. The silence between us was thick, charged with unspoken understanding.
“You’re still waiting for his call, aren’t you?” Her voice broke the quiet, soft but direct. She didn’t need to ask; she already knew.
I met her gaze. Steady. “Nope. I’m done shrinking.”
That earned a nod.
“Good. The longer you wait for forgiveness...” she said, folding herself into the chair across from me, “...the more power you hand over.”
“I know. I haven’t texted him once,” I replied. And this time, it wasn’t a lie. I was done checking my phone like a fool every hour, waiting for a call that never came. “I’ve come to realize that I can’t make him forgive me.”
Mavis exhaled, frustration flashing in her dark eyes. “No, you can’t—so stop trying. You apologized and made it clear how you feel about him. Now it’s up to him to decide.”
I nodded, exhaling slowly.
She shook her head, crossing one leg over the other. “You, my friend, are too damn beautiful and smart to be sitting here acting like you don’t have a choice in this.”
The truth of her words stung, but she was right.
“Peyton Powell is a boss!” Her gaze softened, just slightly, but the steel in her voice remained sharp and unwavering. “Girlfriend, let him chase you.”
I pushed back from my desk, standing with a force that surprised even me. “Damn right,” I muttered, more to myself than to her. “Let’s go eat lunch.”
Lunch helped. Not because it distracted me, but because it reminded me who I was outside of Creed.
I sat between Mavis and Dixie, listening to them talk about their new roles, the weight of their success tangible, electric.
We had come so far, and now we were three of the most powerful women at IWM.
I allowed that to sink in. Mavis was right.
I was successful and damn good at what I did.
There was a lot to be thankful for. That was what I needed to focus on.
Back at the office, I moved on autopilot. Emails. Reports. Client calls. Celine handed me a stack of messages, and I flipped through them. By the time I was back at my desk—focused and grounded—a calendar alert popped up.
Executive Meeting – 3:00 p.m.
My pulse ticked up—but didn’t spiral.
Creed would be there because the financial meeting required it.
By the time I entered the boardroom, the energy was sharp and contained. The murmurs of executives filled the air—low voices discussing figures, deals, and projections. Calculated movements. High-stakes decisions.
But none of it mattered. Because he was there. Creed was seated at the head of the table. An unspoken force that commanded the room without a single word.
He looked exactly as he always did—immaculate, composed, impenetrable. But I saw it now. The tightness wasn’t dominance. It was restraint.
When his eyes lifted and met mine, I didn’t flinch. Didn’t soften. Didn’t wait. I took the seat to his right.
The meeting moved fast—strategy, projections, growth curves. When I spoke, I didn’t watch him for a reaction. I spoke like a woman who no longer needed permission to exist in the room.
And then it happened.
A moment so small, so fleeting, but it shattered everything. I reached for my water glass just as Creed lifted his own. And in that instant, his hand brushed mine. It was barely a touch. The reaction wasn’t dramatic, but that’s what made it lethal.
Creed froze.
Not visibly. Not to anyone else. But I felt it. The way his breath hitched. The way his hand slowed. The way control tightened rather than flowed. He set his glass down carefully.
Too carefully.
And then he looked at me. Not through me. Not past me. At me. There was no anger in his eyes. No punishment. Just recognition.
The meeting ended without ceremony.
I stood first, then gathered my things and walked out without hesitation, straight back to my office. I didn’t glance at him. I didn’t wait. My behavior was not to punish him, but to remind Creed that if he wanted me, he’d have to meet me where I stood now.
Not beneath him. Not waiting.
Standing.
* * *
I DIDN’T HEAR HIM COME in. I felt him.
Not footsteps. Pressure. The kind that altered the air before a storm broke.
I was standing near the window, city lights bleeding into the glass, when the door clicked shut behind me. Slow and controlled. The sound of the lock sliding into place landed low in my spine.
I didn’t turn right away. When I did, I faced him slowly.
Creed stood near the door, jacket buttoned, tie loosened just enough to suggest restraint rather than carelessness. His expression wasn’t angry. That would’ve been easier. This was something far more dangerous—focused. Decided.
“You don’t get to walk out on me like that,” he said. Not loud. Not sharp. Final.
I crossed my arms, grounding myself. “I didn’t walk out on you. I left a meeting.”
His gaze tracked the movement—not my face, but my posture. The way I held my ground.
“You knew exactly what you were doing.”
“Yes,” I said calmly as I circled my desk. “I did.”
A beat passed.
Then Creed’s mouth curved in recognition and he stepped closer. Just close enough to make me aware of him.
“This is what you wanted?” he asked. “To see if I’d follow?”
I lifted my chin. “Yes, I wanted to see if you would.”
Another step.
“You don’t test me lightly.”
“I didn’t test you,” I said. “I stopped chasing.”
That did it.
I felt it before I saw it—the shift, subtle but immediate. The tightening of the air between us.
He reached out, not touching me, but bracing his hand against the desk beside my hip. A boundary drawn without contact.
“You don’t withdraw from me without consequence,” he said quietly.
“And you don’t get to disappear and expect me to stay still,” I replied.
His jaw flexed. Then his hand moved. Not possessive. Intentional.
He took my wrist. Firm. Measured. I didn’t resist. Didn’t soften. Didn’t submit. Instead, I held his gaze.
“This,” he said, thumb pressing lightly where my pulse jumped, “is me taking control back.”
My breath caught, but I didn’t look away. “And this,” I said evenly, “is me letting you, because you showed up.”
Something dark flickered behind his eyes. Approval. Relief. Hunger. In one swift motion, he lifted me off the floor as if I weighed nothing. My heart slammed against my ribs, my hands flying to his chest in reflex.
“Sir—” I started, my voice sharper than I meant it to be. “I’m not interested in playing games.”
Liar.
But I couldn’t let him think he could waltz in whenever he pleased, not after a week of silence and unanswered questions.
His jaw tightened. His eyes burned with something dark, something unspoken. He set me down—firmly, deliberately—on the edge of my desk. His hands bracketed my hips, his body caging mine, the heat of him pressing into me even though our bodies weren’t touching.
His face was inches from mine, his breath hot, his control fraying. “This isn’t a game,” he said low. “And don’t insult me by pretending you don’t want this.”
“You don’t get to disappear,” I said, my voice steady even as my pulse betrayed me. “You don’t get to ignore me and then show up like nothing happened.”
“I stayed away because I didn’t trust myself,” he said. Honest. Raw. “And I won’t touch you when I’m not in control.”
That hit harder than anger ever could.
“Do you think that makes it easier?” I asked quietly. “Not knowing where I stand?”
His hand tightened at my wrist—not painful, just grounding.
“You stand here,” he said fiercely. “In front of me. Exactly where I want you.”
The rawness in his voice, the vulnerability there, cracked something open in my chest.
“Then why push me away?” I asked. “Why make me feel like I’m fighting alone?”
His breath hitched.
“I don’t want to feel this,” he admitted. “I don’t want to need you this much.”
My hand pressed flat against his chest. His heart was racing.
“So instead, you pretend that you don’t,” I whispered.
He looked at me—really stared—like I’d handed him something he didn’t know how to hold. Then he leaned in.
“I’m standing here,” he said quietly. “That’s me choosing.”
His hand slid to my face. Not claiming. Asking. That was when his restraint finally cracked.
“Creed, I—”
“Stop talking.”