Chapter 2
Freya POV:
“Personal reasons?”
He started toward me, one slow step at a time.
He picked up my resignation letter from the desk, scanned it briefly, and then leveled his gaze back at mine.
“This isn't rational.”
He was barely half a step away.
His height dominated my entire field of vision.
I could almost feel the heat radiating from beneath his white shirt.
It wasn't the warmth I remembered; it was aggressive, predatory.
My pulse went into overdrive.
I had this sudden, uncontrollable urge to lean into him, but the realization hit me —
He wasn't the man I used to know.
My breath hitched, and I tightened my fists to steady myself.
He picked up a folder from the desk and flipped through the pages.
“Your numbers are excellent. You’re ranked first in the entire department.”
He set the folder down and looked at me.
“Why?”
“Performance and resignation aren't mutually exclusive,” I shot back with a cold laugh.
He nodded.
“Fair point. A move like this... it’s very you.”
That hit me like a hammer to the chest.
It hurt.
I wanted to snap back, but I caught my words just in time.
Don’t provoke him. It’s not wise.
My hands gripped the edge of the desk.
He glanced at the file again before tossing it back onto the desk.
“I just took over, and my top performer wants out,” he said, closing the gap by another half-step.
We were too close now.
“What’s that going to look like to the rest of the team?”
The slight rise and fall of his chest sent my thoughts into a tailspin.
I turned and took a step back, but he kept pressing in.
His heat, his scent—everything I’d spent two years trying to bury—was now only two inches away.
Breathing became a struggle.
I lifted the resignation letter and held it between us like a shield.
“I don’t care what people think. Just sign it.”
My breathing was heavy now.
He stared at me for a long time, then let out a faint, weary sigh.
“Freya, you’re still as impulsive and childish as ever.”
He sounded so calm, but the words stung like a physical blow.
Impulsive?
Childish?
That’s what he’d called me two years ago when I was sobbing, begging him not to leave.
I was just a girl in love back then.
Too much in love.
I never realized that in his eyes, I was just a joke.
Thankfully, that girl died in the accident.
“So what if I am?” I countered harshly.
“Sign the paper and you won't have to deal with an impulsive, childish subordinate anymore.”
A ghost of a smirk played on his lips.
“Not a bad idea.”
“And I want my commissions settled immediately.”
“Commissions?”
The teasing tone vanished.
He looked at the folder again.
“The company has a process. I’m not sure where you are in the pipeline yet, but sales payouts are always delayed.”
He picked up my letter again.
He acted like he was reading it, though there weren't enough words on that page to justify such a long look.
“Based on my experience, you won't see that money anytime soon.”
“Then check.”
“I’ll handle it when I get around to it.”
“I want it handled now.”
“I have my own schedule, Freya.”
His gaze dropped from my eyes to my lips and lingered there for two agonizing seconds.
His pale blue eyes flickered, and his pulse thrummed in his throat.
Then, he looked away as if nothing had happened.
“I just started. I’m going to be buried for the first few days. Don’t always resort to extremes to solve your problems.”
My heart constricted.
“Is that really how you see me?”
“Am I wrong?”
My knuckles were white against the desk.
My breathing turned shallow.
But his gaze remained unnervingly steady.
I should have known.
I actually thought he’d be good to me, or at least cut me some slack for old time's sake.
Now I saw him for what he was:
A total prick.
This wasn't Harvey Tamer anymore.
He kept his eyes on me.
I told myself not to lose it—not on company time.
Finally, I found my voice. It was flat and cold.
“Fine. I’ll take it up with Accounting. I won't bother you with it.”
----
His gaze drifted from my face down to my legs.
“Your knee. How is it?”
Before I could answer, he crouched down, reaching out to hitch up the hem of my pencil skirt.
“Stop!”
My whole body went rigid, my voice trembling.
“Don’t touch me.”
His hand froze in mid-air, then slowly retracted.
Perhaps he’d finally remembered that he was no longer the man who had the right to touch me whenever he pleased.
I wanted to step back, but my legs felt like they were bolted to the floorboards.
“Stay away from me,” I hissed. “Or are you not worried about a sexual harassment suit?”
He stood up, his expression unreadable.
He dragged a chair over, planting it right in front of me.
“Leg. Up.”
His voice was a sub-zero command.
“In your dreams,” I whispered, the words barely audible.
“I’m not going to say it a second time.”
He sounded even colder now.
I hesitated for a beat before slowly lifting my leg and resting it on the chair.
I gripped the edge of the desk, fighting to stay upright.
I hated this.
I hated obeying him.
The fall at the airport had done real damage to my already fragile leg.
Lifting it now sent a sharp, hot flash of pain through the joint.
I gritted my teeth, refusing to let out so much as a whimper.
He pointed at my knee.
“Pull the skirt up. Or I’ll do it for you.”
I glared at him, but eventually, I gripped the side of the fabric and pulled it up just enough to expose the bruised knee.
He leaned in to inspect it.
He kept a professional distance—just far enough away that I couldn't technically accuse him of anything.
The locked memories broke free then, clawing at my mind.
Me, crying as I pointed to a scratch; him, laughing softly as he disinfected the wound, calling me his "fragile glass flower."
But now, I didn't want him near me.
Not even a finger.
This scrape was nothing compared to the surgical steel buried deep inside my thigh.
That steel was a constant reminder—aching and numbing—of the nightmare I’d lived through.
That was the pain that truly kept me from breathing.
“Seen enough?” I asked coldly.
His body stiffened.
He straightened up.
His eyes swirled with an emotion I couldn't decipher.
Walking back to his desk, he sat down, slipping back into his "Director" persona. “You’ve really decided to leave?”
He grabbed the pen and lowered it; the nib was on the verge of touching the paper when he suddenly stopped.
He stared at me, his light blue eyes as flat and still as a frozen sea.
“There’s no chance of you staying?”
“None.”
He watched me for two long seconds.
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
The pen descended, carving a graceful line across the paper.
Then, he slid the sheet back toward me.
“There you go.”
I picked it up, and the blood rushed to my head in a blinding heat.
Written across the page was:
DENIED.
““You bastard!”
Even two years ago, at the height of my hatred, I had never spoken to him like that.
He just capped his pen with agonizing slowness and looked up, indifferent.
“I have a responsibility to maintain the stability of my sales force. Please try to understand.”
I crumpled the resignation letter into a ball and turned to go.
I grabbed the door handle, intending to slam it hard enough to shake the walls.
But at the last millisecond, I caught the momentum.
Upsetting him further was a bad move.
My bonus was still in his hands.
More importantly, he was a different man now. I had no idea what the consequences of another outburst would be.
I could still feel his icy stare burning a hole in my back.
I let the tension bleed out of my hand, turned around.
And gave him a beautiful, lethal, and utterly fake smile.