Chapter 4
Freya POV:
He just walked out?
It felt like I’d swung a heavy punch only to hit thin air.
No. This isn't over.
I grabbed my notebook and went after him, my heels clicking a frantic, rhythmic beat against the floor.
Harvey was all long strides and raw momentum; he’d already vanished around the corner of the hallway.
I broke into a jog, but my right leg, stiff from sitting too long, protested with every step.
I saw him disappear into the Director’s office and pushed myself to catch up.
I burst through the door—only to find him standing exactly one step inside, as if he’d been waiting for me.
I tried to slam on the brakes, but my treacherous leg wouldn't cooperate.
I slammed right into him.
A small gasp escaped my throat as I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the impact of the floor.
Instead, a sudden warmth enveloped me.
He caught me, holding me steady in a firm, unbreakable grip.
Time didn't just slow down; it froze.
My brain followed suit.
It could have been seconds or milliseconds before I jolted awake, my hands scrambling for purchase, desperate to push away.
My palms landed flat against his chest.
My heart skipped a beat, and for a terrifying moment, I forgot to move my hands.
Thankfully, the dull throb in my bad leg snapped me back to reality.
I stood up straight, my face and ears burning a deep, colonial red.
“Sorry...”
I managed to choke out, stepping back.
He looked down at me, a cryptic, ghost of a smile tugging at his frozen expression.
“You—why were you—” I started to snap at him for standing behind the door, but he just pointed at his chest.
My pupils dilated in horror.
There, on the pristine white fabric of his shirt, was a vibrant, jagged lipstick stain.
I froze.
The heat in my face reached a boiling point.
I lunged for a box of tissues on his desk and pressed a clump of them against his chest, rubbing frantically.
“I’m sorry, I didn't—it wasn't on purpose...”
He didn't say a word.
I didn't dare look up, but I could feel it—
He was mocking me.
The only thought looping in my mind was wishing the floor would just open up and swallow me whole.
Outside, the muffled sounds of the office grew louder as people returned from the meeting.
“Wait, the door—”
Red-faced, I spun around and kicked the office door shut.
Oh god.
I’d lunged at him.
Now I’d locked us in.
He arched a single, elegant eyebrow.
“What now?”
“Get it off, obviously!”
I grabbed more tissues and went back to work, scrubbing at the stain.
My fingers occasionally brushed against the hard muscle of his chest.
He was broader, stronger than he’d been two years ago.
His body heat and that hauntingly familiar scent made it impossible to breathe.
My heart was racing.
I knew the scrubbing was useless, but I couldn't stop.
I couldn't let him win.
But then, the air shifted.
His breathing sounded heavier, darker.
My hand stiffened.
I dropped the shredded tissues to the floor.
“It’s not coming out,” I muttered, leaning back against the desk in defeat. “Just fire me. Get it over with.”
He dropped the "amused spectator" act and spread his arms.
“And then what? When people ask what happened, I should just tell them you branded me?”
“Don’t you dare!”
Frustrated, I grabbed more tissues for one last attempt, but I knew it was a lost cause.
I balled them up and hurled them into the trash.
The silence stretched between us, thick and awkward.
After a moment, he spoke, his voice low and rhythmic.
“Fine. I have a spare in the locker.”
“You couldn't have mentioned that earlier?”
Relief flooded through me, only to vanish a second later.
He’d been playing with me.
He opened the cabinet and pulled out a fresh shirt.
As far as I was concerned, I was off the hook.
“Great. I’m leaving.”
My hand reached for the doorknob.
“Wait—”
I turned back, looking at him.
“Help me with it.”
My heart did a violent somersault.
“Absolutely not,” I snapped, my voice jumping an octave.
He shrugged and made a move to put the clean shirt back in the locker.
“Suit yourself.”
The metal of the doorknob felt ice-cold against my palm.
One turn, and I’d be free.
But I couldn't do it.
He’d keep that lipstick stain like a trophy—
A piece of leverage to use against me.
I let go of the handle and turned to face him, my breath coming in shallow, jagged bursts.
“Mr. Tamer, don’t you think this borders on sexual harassment?”
I asked, my voice a forced mask of calm.
He just shrugged.
“Someone lunges at me and kisses my chest... I’m not sure who’s harassing whom here.”
The heat I’d just managed to drain from my face came rushing back.
I bit my lip, hesitating for a few painful seconds.
“Fine. You take it off. I’ll help you into the new one.”
But he didn't move.
He simply spread his arms and looked at the ceiling, waiting.
I closed my eyes and cursed under my breath.
“You prick.”
I walked toward him, my face a carefully constructed blank.
He watched me, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.
Jacket off.
Tie removed.
I reached for the first button of his shirt.
The scent, the proximity... it was all too familiar.
We had once been so close.
The cracks in the box where I’d buried my memories split wide open, and the past came crashing out, rattling around my skull.
My breathing fractured, and my fingers began to shake.
I had this sudden, aching urge to lean into that warm chest.
To just fall in—
Maybe then it wouldn’t hurt so much.
But I couldn't.
Logic was screaming in my head, a siren warning me to stay back.
One button.
Two.
Once the shirt was open, I took a sharp breath, closed my eyes.
I turned my face away to avoid the sight of him.
I pulled the stained shirt off and draped the clean one over his shoulders.
My fingers brushed against his warm skin—a fleeting, accidental touch that sent a dull ache through my heart.
I didn't need to see.
Every inch of him was etched into my muscle memory.
I worked quickly, fastening the buttons by feel, then looped the tie around his neck and knotted it with practiced efficiency.
When I finished, I felt completely drained, as if I’d run a marathon.
I stepped back, my eyes still tightly shut.
“Put the jacket on yourself,” I said, my voice heavy with exhaustion. “We’re even.”
He didn't say a word.
I kept my eyes closed, my body rigid as the ghosts of our past swirled around us.
Then, I heard him let out a soft, low chuckle.
“That’s it?”
His voice was still laced with that infuriating playfulness.
“Aren't you going to tuck it in for me?”
My hands balled into fists.
“Don’t push it, Harvey!”
I yelled, my voice breaking into a sob.
I was gasping for air, and every breath felt like glass in my lungs.
In the white noise of my panic, I felt his hands reach out and gently cup my face.
His thumb brushed over the wetness on my cheek.
The air in the room seemed to solidify.
I kept my eyes squeezed shut, terrified that if I opened them, he would vanish like a fever dream.
Then, his lips brushed against mine, a soft, ghost of a kiss.
“Freya, don’t cry.”
I snapped my eyes open.
That face—that beautiful, arrogant face I tried so hard to hate—was inches from mine.
I recoiled instantly, slapping his hand away.
“Get lost. Don’t you ever touch me again.”
I scrubbed at my mouth, trying to erase the sensation of his lips, my mind a chaotic mess.
I yanked the door open. The sight of my colleagues busy at their desks felt like a physical assault on my nerves.
I forced myself to hide the wreckage of my emotions and marched straight to the toilet.
Locked inside a stall, I pulled my arms around myself, shaking uncontrollably.
What was that to him? What made him think he had the right to treat me like that? A dull, rhythmic throb started in my right leg.
I leaned my head against the cold partition and let the tears fall.