Part 1

The crystal chandelier above cast fractured light across the polished mahogany tables of The Rosewood, the kind of Chicago steakhouse where reservations required both old money and new connections. I stood frozen just inside the heavy oak entrance, my iPhone still clutched in a hand that was trembling uncontrollably.

My best friend Sophia’s warning text glowed accusingly on the screen: “He’s here with her. I’m so sorry, babe. Please don’t come inside.”

But my feet had already carried me through the doors, past the maître d’s practiced, welcoming smile, and into the warm, amber glow of the dining room. And there, at a prime corner table beneath a painting of the windy city skyline, sat Marcus. My husband of seven years. My ex-husband of exactly forty-three days.

His hand rested on Victoria’s wrist—that same casual, possessive touch he’d once reserved for me. The divorce papers had cited “irreconcilable differences.” That was just polite lawyer-speak for the gut-wrenching truth: Marcus had been sleeping with his 24-year-old paralegal for the better part of two years while I was working double shifts to support his law firm’s expansion.

Victoria, with her glossy blowout and that laugh that sounded like wind chimes, represented everything I felt I had failed to be. Younger. Less complicated. Less exhausted by the grind of climbing the corporate marketing ladder.

I felt like I was swallowing glass.

“Mrs… Evans?” The maître d’ appeared at my elbow, concern flickering across his professional mask. “Your table?”

“I’m just…” I started, then stopped. I didn’t have a table. I had come here because Sophia had texted me, and because some self-d*structive part of my broken heart needed to see the evidence with my own eyes. “Actually, I’ll sit at the bar.”

The bar stretched along the far wall, dark wood and gleaming glassware. Soft jazz drifted from hidden speakers—the kind of smooth, expensive sound designed to make people feel wealthy. I slid onto a leather stool, hyper-aware of Marcus just thirty feet away.

“What can I get you, hon?” The bartender, a woman with kind eyes and silver streaks in her hair, regarded me with knowing sympathy.

“Bourbon. Neat. Make it a double. It’s that kind of year.”

The drink appeared quickly, amber and burning. I took a longer sip than was wise, letting the alcohol create a pleasant, foggy distance between my thoughts and the sharp pain in my chest.

That’s when I noticed him.

Three stools down, a man sat alone with what looked like a scotch. He was focused on his phone, scrolling with precise, deliberate movements. But there was something about the way he held himself—spine straight, shoulders relaxed but broad, an economy of movement that screamed control—that caught my eye.

He wore a charcoal navy suit that I knew, from years of working with high-end clients, probably cost more than my Honda Civic. Tailored to perfection. Dark hair, styled with that deliberately casual look that takes money to maintain. He looked like he owned the building, or perhaps the entire block.

As if sensing my stare, he glanced up.

His eyes were a striking shade of grey-blue, like Lake Michigan in November. They met mine with an intensity that sent an unexpected jolt of electricity straight through the numbness in my chest. He didn’t smile, didn’t leer. He just held my gaze for three heartbeats before returning to his phone.

Professional, I thought. Probably a hedge fund guy waiting for a date.

My phone buzzed. Sophia again. “I see you at the bar. Harper, leave. He’s not worth the mascara stains.”

I looked up to spot Sophia at a table near the window, her face twisted in pity. Behind her, I saw it. Marcus threw his head back and laughed at something Victoria said, his hand now openly interlocking with hers on the white tablecloth. The same hands that had promised “till d*ath do us part.” The same hands that signed the divorce papers without a single hesitate.

Something hot, reckless, and entirely unhinged unfurled in my chest.

For seven years, I had been the “understanding” wife. I’d made myself smaller so he could feel bigger. I had played by the rules. And for what? To be discarded like last season’s iPhone the moment a shiny new model came along?

No. Not tonight.

My gaze drifted back to the stranger at the bar. He had set his phone down and was signing a check with a heavy fountain pen. In about thirty seconds, he would be gone, and so would this insane idea forming in my grief-stricken brain.

I didn’t let myself think. Thinking meant acknowledging how absolutely crazy this was. I slid off my stool, smoothed down my emerald green dress—the “revenge dress” I’d bought post-divorce that hugged curves I’d hidden for too long—and walked toward him.

The stranger looked up as I approached, those storm-cloud eyes widening slightly. Up close, he was devastating. Sharp jawline, faint stubble, a mouth that looked like it rarely smiled but would be dangerous if it did.

“Excuse me,” I said, praying my voice wouldn’t crack.

“Can I help you?” His voice was deep, a baritone rumble that vibrated in the air between us.

“I need to ask you for a somewhat… unusual favor.”

One dark eyebrow rose. “Do you?” It wasn’t a rejection, just an acknowledgment.

“Yes. I know this sounds crazy. But my cheating ex-husband is sitting right over there with the woman he left me for. And I really, really need him to think I’ve moved on spectacularly.”

The stranger’s gaze flicked past my shoulder, scanning the room, then returned to my face. A spark of interest lit up his eyes. “And how, exactly, would I help with that?”

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. “I need you to kiss me. Just for a moment. Just long enough for him to see I’m fine. That I’m better than fine. That I’m with someone who looks like…” I gestured vaguely at his impeccable suit. “Like you.”

“Like me?” he repeated, a ghost of a smirk touching his lips.

“Successful. Attractive. Completely out of his league.” The words tumbled out. “Please. Thirty seconds. Then I’ll disappear and you’ll never see me again.”

He studied me for a long, agonizing moment. I felt heat creeping up my neck. This was it. The rejection. The humiliation.

Then, he set down his pen.

“Thirty seconds,” he said quietly.

Before I could process it, the stranger stood. He was tall—at least 6’2″. He moved with a fluid grace that made the air in the room feel thinner. His hand came up to cup my jaw, his thumb brushing my cheekbone with surprising gentleness.

“Your ex-husband,” he murmured, his breath warm against my lips, smelling of expensive scotch and mint. “Is he watching?”

I risked a glance. Marcus was staring, his mouth slightly open, his fork frozen halfway to his mouth.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Good.”

Then, he kissed me.

And it wasn’t just a stage kiss. It was earth-shattering.

Part 2: The Morning After & The Boardroom Bomb

I have replayed those thirty seconds approximately seven thousand times in my head.

Each iteration added new details I’d been too shocked to notice in the moment. The way the stranger—Adrien, I still didn’t know his name then—had tasted faintly of oaky scotch and spearmint. How his other hand had settled at the small of my back, steadying me when my knees had literally turned to jelly. The controlled, terrifying strength in the way he held me, like I was something precious he didn’t want to break, rather than a prop in my desperate revenge theater.

I had fled The Rosewood immediately after. I didn’t look back at Marcus. I didn’t wait for the stranger to ask for my number. I just ran. I left Sophia’s confused texts unanswered until Sunday morning.

When I finally called my best friend, Sophia described Marcus’s face as “somewhere between constipated and having a stroke,” which should have felt like a victory.

Instead, I just felt empty. And slightly mortified.

“You kissed a random hot guy, Harper,” Sophia had shrieked over the phone. “You, the woman who organizes her spice rack alphabetically, just sexually assaulted a stranger to spite your ex. I’m so proud I could cry.”

“I’m never leaving my apartment again,” I groaned, burying my face in a pillow. “I don’t know who he was, Soph. He was… expensive. He looked like the kind of guy who owns islands. What if he thought I was a escort? What if he thought I was insane?”

“He kissed you back, babe. Trust me. I saw it. That wasn’t a pity kiss. That was a ‘let’s skip dinner’ kiss.”

I tried to push the memory away. It was a one-time thing. A glitch in the matrix of my otherwise crumbled life.

Monday morning arrived with the subtlety of a freight train.

I stood in the elevator of Renaissance Tower, trying to center myself. The “All Hands” meeting email had been vague about the acquisition details, mentioning only that Meridian Digital had purchased our agency, DataCore Marketing Solutions, and that “exciting changes” were ahead.

In corporate speak, “exciting” usually meant “potentially catastrophic” and “layoffs imminent.”

“You look like you’re heading to an execution,” remarked James Park, one of our junior analysts. He was twenty-four, drank too much matcha, and was still annoyingly optimistic about corporate life.

“Give it time, James,” I muttered, adjusting the collar of my blouse. “I just didn’t sleep well.”

Which wasn’t a lie. I had spent the night staring at my ceiling, wondering if Marcus was happy with Victoria. Wondering if I was destined to be the divorced cat lady of the marketing department.

The elevator doors chimed and opened onto the 15th floor. The main conference room, a glass-walled fishbowl overlooking the Chicago Loop, was already packed. Probably two hundred employees were crammed in, spilling out into the hallway. The air smelled of nervous sweat and stale coffee.

I spotted Sophia near the windows and began threading through the crowd.

“This is either really good or really bad,” Sophia whispered as I reached her, handing me a Starbucks cup. “No middle ground with acquisitions. Meridian is huge, Harper. They’re a tech giant. Why do they want a mid-sized marketing firm?”

“Data,” I said automatically. “They want our consumer analytics. Which means they might not need the people who interpret the data.”

“Thanks for that reassuring analysis.”

“I live to serve.”

“Also,” she nudged me, “you still haven’t told me if you’re going back to The Rosewood to stalk Mystery Man.”

“Drop it, Soph. He’s probably halfway to London by now. Men like that don’t stay in Chicago to—”

I cut myself off. The room went silent.

Our current CEO, Patricia Valdez, stepped to the podium. Patricia had led DataCore for twelve years, a tough-as-nails woman I admired deeply. But today, she looked exhausted.

“Good morning, everyone,” Patricia began, her usual commanding tone missing. “As you know, we’ve been exploring strategic partnerships. I am pleased to announce that Meridian Digital has officially acquired DataCore. This merger brings resources and technology that will secure our future.”

The word merger when everyone knew it was a hostile acquisition. Classic.

“It is my honor,” Patricia continued, gesturing to the side of the room, “to introduce the founder and CEO of Meridian Digital, and your new leadership… Mr. Adrien Blackwood.”

The room erupted in polite, terrified applause. I clapped mechanically, my thoughts already drifting to updating my LinkedIn profile. Maybe this was the push I needed. Maybe I’d move to a farm in Vermont and make goat cheese.

Then, a man walked onto the small stage.

Navy suit. Impeccable tailoring. Dark hair, slightly longer on top. And eyes that swept the crowd with the calculating precision of a predator scanning a herd.

My hands froze mid-clap.

The air left my lungs in a violent whoosh.

No.

No, no, no.

“Oh my god,” Sophia breathed beside me, her nails digging into my arm. “Harper. Look. It’s him. That’s the guy. That’s the Rosewood guy.”

My vision blurred at the edges.

The stranger from the bar. The man I had accosted. The man I had grabbed by the tie and kissed like my life depended on it. The man I had used as a prop.

He was standing at the front of the room.

He was my boss.

He was Adrien Blackwood, the billionaire tech mogul who had been on the cover of Forbes last month—a fact I would have known if I hadn’t been too busy crying over divorce papers to read business news.

“I’m going to throw up,” I whispered.

“You kissed the CEO,” Sophia hissed, a mix of horror and delight on her face. “You made out with the man who signs our paychecks.”

“I need to leave. I need to fake a seizure. I need to die right now.”

Adrien’s gaze was moving across the room, row by row. He looked bored, powerful, and utterly in command. Then, his eyes locked onto the back corner.

Onto me.

For a fraction of a second, something flickered in his expression. Recognition? Definitely. And something else… something that looked disturbingly like amusement.

Then, his face smoothed into a mask of professional neutrality.

“Thank you, Patricia,” he said. His voice was amplified by the microphone, but it was that same deep, rough timber that had vibrated against my ear on Friday night. “Your ex-husband… is he watching?”

I felt heat flood my face so fast I thought I might spontaneously combust.

“I know acquisitions create anxiety,” Adrien said, addressing the room. “Change is uncomfortable. But Meridian didn’t purchase DataCore to tear it apart. We acquired you because you have talent we need. We want to help you grow.”

He spoke about integration timelines, synergy, expanded client access. Every word was perfectly calibrated to reassure and inspire. He was brilliant. He was charismatic.

And I heard approximately none of it.

I was too busy calculating whether I could rappel down the side of the building before the meeting ended.

“That said,” Adrien continued, stepping closer to the edge of the stage, “I believe in hands-on leadership. Over the next two weeks, I will be meeting with each department head and key strategist to understand your work. Starting this afternoon with the Marketing Strategy team.”

My team.

“Of course,” I whimpered.

The meeting concluded with more reassurances. As people began filtering out, buzzing with the nervous energy of gossip, I tried to disappear into the herd. If I could just get to my desk, type up a resignation letter, and flee to Canada…

“Miss Evans?”

I froze.

Adrien’s assistant—a sharp-eyed woman in her forties with a headset—had materialized beside me.

“Mr. Blackwood would like to see you in Conference Room C. Now, please.”

Sophia’s eyes went wide as saucers. She mouthed, Good luck, and backed away slowly.

“Of course,” I managed, my voice sounding strangled.

The walk to Conference Room C felt like a death march. My heels clicked against the polished floors, counting down the seconds to my professional demise. Maybe he’d be merciful. Maybe he’d just fire me quickly. Harper, you’re fired for sexual harassment via non-consensual kissing. Could he sue me?

I reached the glass door. I took a breath that rattled in my chest. I opened it.

Adrien stood by the windows, hands in his pockets, looking out over the grey Chicago skyline. He had removed his suit jacket, tossing it over a chair. His crisp white shirt was rolled up to the elbows, revealing forearms that were… distracting.

He turned as I entered.

“Close the door, please.”

I did. The click of the latch sounded like a gunshot.

“Mr. Blackwood, I…” I started, clutching my notebook like a shield. “I need to apologize immediately. I had absolutely no idea who you were.”

“Adrien,” he corrected. He moved toward the mahogany conference table and gestured for me to sit. “We’ve already skipped several steps of professional decorum, Harper. It seems pointless to stand on formality now.”

He knew my name.

I sank into a chair, mainly because my legs weren’t entirely trustworthy.

“About Friday night,” I rushed on, the words spilling out. “It was impulsive, inappropriate, and… and the result of a very bad personal situation. I was angry and hurt, and the whiskey probably didn’t help. I completely understand if you need to terminate my employment. I’ll pack my desk.”

“Terminate you?” One dark eyebrow rose. He looked genuinely confused. “Why would I do that?”

“Because I… I accosted you in a bar!”

“You asked me for a favor,” Adrien said calmly, leaning back against the edge of the table, crossing his ankles. “I obliged. It was a transaction.”

“A transaction involving tongues,” I blurted out, then immediately covered my mouth. “Oh my god. I’m sorry.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Harper, relax. I reviewed every employee file before this acquisition was finalized. I know exactly who you are. You’ve increased client retention by 30% in two years. You developed the ‘Shadow & Light’ campaign that landed the Sinclair account. You are the best strategist in this building.”

I blinked, my brain trying to catch up. “You… you knew who I was on Friday?”

“Not when you first approached me,” he admitted. “I recognized you about halfway through your request. When I got a better look at your face. Patricia had sent executive team photos with the due diligence documents.”

The implications crashed over me like a wave.

“Wait.” I narrowed my eyes, the embarrassment momentarily replaced by shock. “So, you knew I was an employee of the company you just bought… and you kissed me anyway?”

“You asked me to kiss you,” Adrien corrected, a spark of devilish light dancing in those storm-cloud eyes. “I simply… followed instructions. And for the record, I was planning to leave the restaurant before you walked up. The kiss delayed my departure by approximately forty-five seconds.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. “This is insane.”

“It’s complicated,” Adrien agreed, his voice dropping an octave, losing the amusement. He stood up and walked around the table until he was standing just a few feet from my chair. The air in the room suddenly felt very heavy.

“And that is why we need to establish boundaries.”

I looked up at him. “Boundaries?”

“I’m attracted to you, Harper.”

The directness of it knocked the wind out of me.

“You’re intelligent, you’re accomplished, you’re clearly passionate, and yes… you are extremely attractive. I’d have to be dead not to notice. And based on Friday, the chemistry is mutual.”

He leaned down, placing both hands on the arms of my chair, trapping me in his space. My heart hammered so hard I worried he could hear it.

“But I am your boss now,” he said softy. “Which creates ethical concerns and power dynamics we cannot ignore. I didn’t build Meridian by making impulsive decisions or compromising my integrity.”

“So…” I swallowed hard, smelling that cedar and mint scent again. “So what happens now?”

He pushed himself back up, instantly restoring the professional distance. “So, we are going to work together. You are going to continue doing the excellent work you are known for. And we are both going to ignore the fact that every time I look at you, I remember exactly how you taste.”

My face felt like it was on fire.

“I can do that,” I lied.

“Good.” He checked his watch. “Your department meeting is at 2:00 PM. Prepare a presentation on your current projects. Impress me professionally, Harper. Since we’ve already covered… other territory.”

Was he making a joke? His expression remained perfectly neutral.

“I’ll be ready,” I said, standing up on shaky legs.

“Harper,” he said as I reached for the door handle.

I turned back.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, meeting my eyes with a sudden, fierce intensity. “Your ex-husband is an idiot.”

I walked back to my desk in a daze. Sophia pounced the moment I sat down.

“Well? Do we need to flee the country? Did he fire you?”

“No,” I whispered, staring at my computer screen without seeing it. “He just… he wants a presentation at two o’clock.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

But it wasn’t it. Not even close.

The next three weeks were a specific kind of torture I hadn’t known existed.

Adrien wasn’t just a figurehead CEO. He was everywhere. He moved into the corner office, stripped away the stuffy decor, and turned the company culture upside down. He was brilliant, demanding, and frustratingly fair.

And he kept his word. He was perfectly professional.

Too professional.

In meetings, he challenged my data. He pushed me to refine my pitches. He treated me exactly like he treated James or Sophia or the VP of Sales.

Except for the eyes.

Sometimes, when I was presenting, I’d catch him watching me. Not looking at the screen, not looking at his tablet—looking at me. His gaze would track my hands as I gestured, or linger on my mouth when I laughed at a colleague’s joke.

It was subtle. If I hadn’t felt his hands on my waist that night, I might have imagined it. But I knew. The air between us sizzled with a static charge that was exhausting to ignore.

“You’re staring again,” Sophia muttered one Tuesday during a strategy session. “Subtletty is not your strong suit, Harper.”

I forced my attention back to the quarterly projections. “I’m not staring. I’m analyzing leadership dynamics.”

“You’re analyzing his triceps through that shirt. It’s embarrassing.”

Across the table, Adrien glanced up. His eyes met mine for a heartbeat. His mouth twitched. He knew. He absolutely knew.

The work became my shield. I poured everything I had into the “rebranding” project. I stayed late. I arrived early. I needed to prove—to him, and to myself—that I wasn’t just the messy divorcée who made bad choices in bars.

Then came the night of the pitch deck.

It was 8:30 PM on a Thursday. The office was deserted, save for the cleaning crew humming vacuums on the lower floors. I was in the breakroom, trying to coax the coffee machine into giving me one last cup of sludge, when I sensed him.

“You should go home, Harper.”

I jumped, spinning around.

Adrien was leaning against the doorframe. He had abandoned the suit jacket hours ago. His tie was loosened, the top button of his shirt undone. He looked tired, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“I need to finish the projected analytics for the morning meeting,” I said, clutching my empty mug. “The data from the focus group just came in.”

“The data can wait. Burnout is bad for business.” He walked into the small room, the space instantly feeling too small. He reached past me to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. His arm brushed mine.

A literal spark of static electricity snapped between us.

We both flinched.

“Sorry,” I murmured, stepping back against the counter.

Adrien didn’t step back. He stood there, holding the cold water bottle, looking down at me. The fluorescent light of the breakroom hummed loudly.

“How are you holding up?” he asked. His voice was softer than it was in the boardroom. “With everything? The merger? The… personal situation?”

“I’m fine,” I said automatically.

“Liar.”

I looked up, surprised by the gentle accusation. “I am. I’m busy. Busy is good.”

“Busy is a drug,” he countered. “It numbs the pain but it doesn’t heal the wound.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “Is that a quote from your autobiography, Mr. Blackwood?”

“Adrien,” he corrected again, stepping closer. “And yes, maybe. I know what it looks like to bury yourself in work to avoid going home to an empty house.”

I froze. I knew from the tabloids—Sophia had forced me to read them—that Adrien was single. But he always seemed so complete. So self-sufficient.

“Why did you do it?” I asked suddenly. The question had been burning a hole in my tongue for weeks.

“Do what?”

“Kiss me. That night. You knew I was your employee. You knew it was messy. You’re a control freak, Adrien. You calculate everything. Why risk it?”

He stared at me, his grey eyes darkening. He took a sip of water, seemingly buying time.

“Because,” he said slowly, setting the bottle down. “I had spent three days looking at your personnel file. I saw your photo. I read your performance reviews. I saw a woman who was brilliant and underappreciated.”

He took a step forward. I didn’t retreat.

“And then you walked up to me in that green dress,” he murmured. “You were shaking. You were terrified. But you were also fierce. You were ready to burn the whole world down to reclaim your dignity. I liked that.”

He was close enough now that I could see the flecks of gold in his grey eyes.

“And?” I whispered.

“And,” his gaze dropped to my lips, then back up to my eyes. “I wanted to know if you tasted as dangerous as you looked.”

My breath hitched. “Did I?”

“You ruined me for anyone else, Harper. So yes.”

The tension snapped. Logic, professionalism, HR policies—they all evaporated.

I didn’t think. I just leaned in.

Adrien’s hand came up, his fingers brushing my cheek, tilting my head back. He was going to kiss me. Right here in the breakroom, next to the recycling bin and the stale donuts. And I was going to let him. I wanted him to.

Bzzt. Bzzt.

My phone vibrated violently on the counter next to us.

We sprang apart like guilty teenagers.

I grabbed the phone, my heart racing at a dangerous speed. The screen lit up with a name I hadn’t seen in weeks.

Marcus.

I stared at it, the spell broken. The reality of my life—my divorce, the mess, the baggage—came crashing back in.

“You should answer that,” Adrien said. His voice was rough, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He looked like he was physically restraining himself.

“I…” I looked at him, then at the phone. “No. I don’t want to.”

“Harper.” He took a deep breath, adjusting his cuffs, pulling the CEO mask back into place. “We can’t do this here. I almost forgot that. Thank you for the reminder.”

He didn’t look thankful. He looked tortured.

“Go home,” he said, his voice clipped now. “Get some sleep. That’s an order.”

He turned and walked out of the breakroom without looking back.

I stood there for a long time, the vibration of my phone echoing in the silence. I declined Marcus’s call.

But as I packed up my bag that night, looking at the empty corner office where the light was still on, I knew one thing for certain.

Adrien Blackwood wasn’t just my boss. And I wasn’t just his employee. We were a collision waiting to happen. And God help us when we finally crashed.

Part 3: The Gala, The Ghost, and The Crossing of The Line

If there is a specific circle of hell reserved for people who complicate their lives with office romances, it probably looks exactly like the Grand Ballroom of the Art Institute of Chicago.

It was the night of the Meridian Digital Winter Gala.

In the two weeks since the “Breakroom Incident”—as I now referred to it in my therapy journal—Adrien and I had entered a Cold War of aggressive professionalism. We were polite. We were efficient. We were so careful not to touch that we practically walked on opposite sides of the hallway.

It was exhausting. It was like holding your breath for fourteen days straight.

“You look like a weapon,” Sophia said, zipping up the back of my dress in the bathroom of my apartment. “A very expensive, very shiny weapon.”

I turned to the mirror. The dress was gunmetal grey silk, liquid and unforgiving. It had a high neck but a back that plunged dangerously low. It was armor. It was a statement. It said: I am not the sad divorcée. I am the Director of Marketing, and I am terrifying.

“I feel like an imposter,” I confessed, smoothing the fabric over my hips.

“You are a survivor,” Sophia corrected, handing me a glass of champagne. “Now, drink this. You have to spend four hours watching billionaires pat themselves on the back. You’ll need liquid courage.”

She didn’t know the half of it. I didn’t need courage for the billionaires. I needed courage to face him in a tuxedo without doing something that would get me sued.

The gala was a sea of black ties and designer gowns. Waiters circulated with trays of impossibly small food that cost more than my first car. The air hummed with the sound of string quartets and networking.

I arrived alone. I held my head high, smiling at colleagues, shaking hands with board members, playing the part of the gracious executive. I was doing fine. I was breathing.

Then, the atmosphere in the room shifted. It wasn’t a sound; it was a gravitational pull.

I turned toward the entrance.

Adrien had arrived.

If he looked good in a business suit, he looked criminal in a tuxedo. The stark black and white emphasized the tan of his skin and the startling blue-grey of his eyes. He moved through the crowd not like a guest, but like the owner of the world. People parted for him like the Red Sea.

He stopped to speak to a senator. He laughed at something a donor said. He looked relaxed, charming, untouchable.

And then, across the expanse of the ballroom, his eyes found mine.

The rest of the room blurred. The noise faded to a dull roar. For a second, his charming mask slipped, revealing a flash of that raw, hungry intensity I’d seen in the breakroom. He looked me up and down, a slow, deliberate sweep that felt like a physical touch.

My skin prickled.

He excused himself from the senator and began walking toward me. My flight or fight response kicked in. Run, Harper. Run to the coat check.

But I stood my ground.

“Harper,” he said as he reached me. His voice was low, intimate despite the crowd. “You look…” He paused, searching for the word, his jaw tightening. “Trouble.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Mr. Blackwood,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady.

“Adrien,” he corrected automatically. “I thought we established that.”

“Not here,” I whispered, glancing around. “Here, you are the CEO, and I am the employee you just acquired.”

“Is that all you are?”

The question hung between us, heavy and dangerous.

“Adrien, please,” I murmured, clutching my clutch bag so hard my knuckles turned white. “Don’t start. Not here.”

He stepped closer, invading my personal space just enough to be improper, but not enough to cause a scene. “I hate this,” he said, his voice a rough growl. “I hate watching you from across the room. I hate pretending I don’t know exactly what perfume you’re wearing.”

“Santal and Jasmine,” I answered involuntarily.

“I know.” He stared at me, his eyes dark. “It’s driving me insane.”

“Miss Evans! Adrien!”

The spell shattered. We both turned to see Patricia, the former CEO, approaching with a glass of wine. She looked delighted.

“I am so glad to see the two of you talking,” she beamed. “Adrien, Harper is the jewel of this company. You must treat her well.”

Adrien looked at me, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “I intend to, Patricia. If she lets me.”

I felt like I was walking a tightrope over a pit of alligators. I excused myself as quickly as politeness allowed, claiming I needed to find Sophia. I needed air. I needed to get away from the magnetic pull of Adrien Blackwood before I did something reckless like dragging him into a supply closet.

I made my way toward the terrace doors. The cool Chicago night air would help.

I was three steps from freedom when a hand clamped around my upper arm.

“Harper.”

The voice was familiar. It was the voice that had said “I do.” The voice that had said “I’m working late” when he was actually with her.

I froze. Ice water flooded my veins.

I turned slowly.

Marcus stood there. He wasn’t wearing a tuxedo; he was in a dark suit that looked slightly rumpled. His face was flushed, his eyes glassy. He looked like a man who had had too many drinks at the open bar.

“Marcus,” I said, my voice cold. “Let go of my arm.”

“I didn’t think you’d be here,” he slurred slightly. “Fancy party. Big leagues. You always liked to play pretend, didn’t you?”

“I work here, Marcus. Unlike you. How did you even get in?”

“Client,” he waved a vague hand. “Doesn’t matter. Look at you.” His eyes raked over my dress, but there was no admiration in it, only a possessive, angry sneer. “That dress. A bit much, don’t you think? Trying to catch a new wallet?”

The old Harper—the wife who wanted to keep the peace—would have shrunk away. She would have tried to de-escalate. She would have felt ashamed.

But the Harper standing there had survived the humiliation of The Rosewood. She had survived a hostile takeover. She had been kissed by Adrien Blackwood.

I ripped my arm out of his grip.

“Get out of my way,” I hissed. “You don’t get to speak to me. You lost that privilege when you slept with your paralegal.”

“Victoria is driving me crazy,” he blurted out, stepping in front of me to block my path. “She’s a child, Harper. She doesn’t get it. She doesn’t get me like you did.”

I stared at him in disbelief. “Are you serious? You’re doing this now?”

“I made a mistake,” he whispered, leaning in, smelling of gin and desperation. “I miss you. The house is a mess. My life is a mess. Come on, Harps. Let’s get out of here. Let’s talk.”

He reached for my hand.

“She told you to back off.”

The voice didn’t come from me. It came from behind Marcus. It was deep, calm, and terrifyingly cold.

Marcus spun around.

Adrien stood there. He wasn’t posturing. He wasn’t raising his voice. He was standing with his hands in his pockets, perfectly at ease, looking at Marcus like he was a stain on the carpet that needed to be removed.

“Who the hell are you?” Marcus snapped, though his confidence faltered as he took in Adrien’s height and the sheer cost of his tuxedo.

“I’m the man who is going to have security escort you out of this building in exactly thirty seconds,” Adrien said pleasantly. “Unless you vanish on your own.”

Marcus sneered, trying to regain ground. “This is a private conversation between a husband and wife.”

“Ex-wife,” Adrien corrected. His eyes were like chips of ice. “And from where I’m standing, it looked like harassment.”

“It’s none of your business,” Marcus spat, stepping toward Adrien. A fatal error.

Adrien didn’t flinch. He just took one step forward, entering Marcus’s space with an air of menace that was palpable. “Harper is my employee. Her safety is my business. Her happiness is my business.”

He paused, his voice dropping to a whisper that only Marcus and I could hear.

“And if you ever touch her again, I will make sure you never practice law in the state of Illinois again. I have a team of lawyers who get bored very easily. Do not test me.”

Marcus paled. He looked from Adrien to me, realizing suddenly exactly who he was dealing with. The fight drained out of him, replaced by fear.

“I was just leaving,” Marcus muttered. He shot me one last, resentful look, and hurried away toward the exit.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, my knees suddenly shaking. I reached out to steady myself against a high-top table.

Adrien was beside me in an instant. His hand hovered near my back but didn’t touch, respecting the boundary even now.

“Are you alright?” His voice was completely different now—urgent, gentle.

“I’m fine,” I lied. “He just… surprised me.”

“He’s a fool,” Adrien said, looking at the door where Marcus had disappeared. “He had you, and he threw it away. He is the biggest fool I have ever met.”

I looked up at him. The adrenaline was crashing, leaving me feeling raw and exposed. “Adrien, people are watching.”

“Let them watch,” he said fiercely. “I don’t care anymore, Harper. I watched him grab you, and I wanted to tear the room apart. I can’t do this. I can’t play the aloof boss while you’re standing here looking like… looking like that.”

“Adrien…”

“Leave with me.”

The request hung in the air. It was a cliff. Jumping off meant violating every rule in the employee handbook. It meant risking my reputation. It meant crossing a line we could never uncross.

I looked at the crowded ballroom. I looked at the meaningless networking, the fake smiles, the life I was supposed to be living.

Then I looked at Adrien. The man who had kissed me when I was broken. The man who saw my talent before he saw my face. The man who had just defended me not because he owned me, but because he respected me.

“Yes,” I whispered.

We didn’t take my car. We took his.

His driver navigated the Chicago streets in silence, the partition raised. We sat in the back of the sleek black sedan, the city lights streaking past the tinted windows like comets.

We didn’t touch. The air between us was so thick with tension it felt flammable. I could hear his breathing—steady, controlled. I could feel the heat radiating from his body inches from mine.

“Where are we going?” I asked softly.

“My place,” he said. “Unless you want me to take you home. If you want to go home, tell me now, Harper. Because if we go to my apartment, I am not going to be your boss tonight.”

I turned to look at him. The passing streetlights illuminated his profile—the sharp nose, the determined set of his jaw.

“Don’t take me home,” I said.

He turned to look at me, his eyes blazing. He reached out and took my hand, interlacing our fingers. His grip was tight, desperate. He brought my hand to his lips and kissed my knuckles, never breaking eye contact.

The car stopped in front of a glass tower in the Gold Coast.

The elevator ride to the penthouse was silent, charged. My heart was pounding a rhythm against my ribs that echoed in my ears. This is happening. This is really happening.

The doors opened directly into his apartment. It was stunning—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake, modern art, dark wood. But I barely registered the decor.

As soon as the elevator doors closed behind us, the control Adrien had been maintaining for weeks snapped.

He turned to me. There was no hesitation this time.

“Harper.”

He crossed the distance between us in two strides. He didn’t ask permission this time—he knew he had it. He Cupped my face in both hands and kissed me.

It wasn’t like the kiss at the restaurant. That had been a performance. This was a confession.

It was hungry and desperate and real. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, tangling my fingers in his hair. I felt him groan against my lips, a sound that vibrated through my entire body.

He walked me backward until I hit the wall, his body pressing against mine, solid and warm.

“I have been wanting to do this,” he murmured against my neck, sending shivers down my spine, “since the moment you walked into that boardroom and looked at me with those terrified eyes.”

“I thought you hated me,” I gasped, my head falling back.

“Hated you?” He pulled back to look at me, his eyes searching my face. “Harper, I was terrified. I have never let anyone distract me from my work. Never. And then you come along, with your color-coded spreadsheets and your fierce loyalty and that green dress… and suddenly, I don’t care about the merger. I don’t care about the board. I just care about where you are.”

“This is dangerous,” I whispered, reaching up to undo his bowtie. It came loose in my hands. “HR will have a field day.”

“Let them,” he said, capturing my hands. “I’ll rewrite the policy. I’ll buy the HR department. I don’t care.”

He kissed me again, deeper this time. He tasted of champagne and desire.

“Are you sure?” he asked, pulling back slightly, his forehead resting against mine. He was giving me an out. One last chance to run back to safety. “If we do this, there is no going back to being just colleagues. It changes everything.”

I looked at him. I thought about Marcus, who had made me feel small and ordinary. Who had made me feel like I was too much work.

Then I looked at Adrien, who looked at me like I was the only source of light in the city.

“I don’t want to go back,” I said. “I want this. I want you.”

He let out a ragged breath, like he’d been waiting a lifetime to hear those words.

He swept me up into his arms—bridal style, effortless—and carried me toward the bedroom. The city lights of Chicago glittered below us, millions of people living their lives, following the rules.

But up here, in the sky, we were making our own.

The morning sun hit the lake with a blinding brilliance that woke me up.

I blinked, disoriented for a moment. The sheets were Egyptian cotton, far softer than my own. The smell was different—cedar, rain, and him.

Memory rushed back. The gala. Marcus. The car ride. The way Adrien had looked at me in the dark.

I rolled over. The other side of the enormous bed was empty.

Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in my chest. The Morning After Regret. It was a cliché for a reason. Had he woken up, realized he’d slept with his subordinate, and freaked out? Was he on the phone with legal right now drafting a non-disclosure agreement?

I sat up, pulling the sheet around me, searching for my dress. It was draped carefully over a chair, not discarded on the floor.

“You’re awake.”

I spun around.

Adrien was standing in the doorway. He was wearing grey sweatpants and a t-shirt, holding two mugs of coffee. His hair was messy. He looked domestic. He looked… happy.

“I thought…” I started, my voice raspy.

“You thought I panicked and ran?” He walked over, setting the coffee on the nightstand and sitting on the edge of the bed. “I’ve been up for an hour watching you sleep. Which sounds creepy, but was actually quite peaceful.”

I relaxed, letting out a breath. “Not creepy. Just… unexpected. Billionaire CEOs usually have places to be.”

“I’m exactly where I want to be.” He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. His touch was tender, possessing a familiarity now that made my heart ache in a good way.

“Adrien, what do we do?” I asked, the reality of Monday morning looming. “We can’t just walk into the office holding hands.”

“We’ll figure it out,” he said firmly. “We keep it private for now. Not secret—private. There’s a difference. We let the dust settle from the acquisition. And when the time is right, we tell HR.”

“And if they say one of us has to leave?”

“Then I’ll build you your own company,” he said, dead serious. “Or I’ll step down. I’ve made enough money.”

I laughed, taking the coffee. “You’d step down as CEO of Meridian for me? After one night?”

“Harper,” he looked at me, his expression sobering. “It wasn’t just one night. You know that. It was the start.”

I smiled, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the coffee. “Okay. The start.”

We drank our coffee in silence, watching the boats on the lake. For the first time in months—maybe years—I didn’t feel anxious. I felt settled.

But the universe, as it turns out, has a wicked sense of humor.

“I should probably check my phone,” I said, reaching for my clutch on the nightstand. “Sophia has probably filed a missing person’s report.”

I pulled out my phone.

There were forty-two missed calls. Twenty from Sophia. Ten from my mother. And twelve from an unknown number.

And a barrage of texts.

Sophia: Harper. Don’t look at the internet. Sophia: Where are you? Call me NOW. Sophia: It’s bad. It’s really bad.

My stomach dropped. “Adrien.”

“What is it?” He sensed the shift in my mood instantly.

“Something is wrong.”

I opened the news app. I didn’t have to search. It was the top trending story in Chicago business news.

SCANDAL AT THE GALA: TECH MOGUL ADRIEN BLACKWOOD CAUGHT IN BRAWL WITH EMPLOYEE’S HUSBAND.

There was a photo. grainy, taken by a bystander at the gala. It showed Adrien stepping toward Marcus, his face a mask of fury. It looked like he was about to punch him.

But the headline below it was worse.

“Meridian CEO Accused of Destroying Marriage of Top Marketing Executive: Did The Affair Start Before The Merger?”

The article cited an “anonymous source”—Marcus. It had to be Marcus. He had spun a story that Adrien had poached me, that our affair was the reason for my divorce, that Adrien was abusing his power.

It painted Adrien as a predator. And it painted me as the woman who slept her way to safety.

“Oh my god,” I whispered, the blood draining from my face. “Adrien, look.”

He took the phone. His eyes scanned the screen. His jaw tightened until I thought a tooth might crack.

“He talked,” Adrien said, his voice deadly quiet. “He went to the press.”

“This destroys everything,” I said, panic rising in my throat. “The acquisition. Your reputation. The board will demand an investigation. They’ll fire me.”

Adrien set the phone down. He looked at me. He didn’t look scared. He looked like a general surveying a battlefield.

“They won’t fire you,” he said calmly.

“How can you know that? This looks terrible!”

“Because,” Adrien stood up, the sweatpants and t-shirt suddenly feeling like battle armor. “I’m not going to let them. Marcus wants a war? He just got one.”

He reached for his phone.

“Get dressed, Harper,” he said, dialing a number. “We’re not hiding. We’re going to the office. And we’re going to burn his narrative to the ground.”

“Together?” I asked, trembling.

He held out his hand to me.

“Together.”

Part 4: The Verdict & The Rosewood Return

The ride to the Meridian Digital headquarters was a masterclass in silence. Not the comfortable silence of the morning, but the heavy, pressurized silence of a submarine diving too deep.

Outside the tinted windows of Adrien’s town car, Chicago was waking up. People were buying coffee, catching trains, walking dogs. They had no idea that inside this vehicle, two careers were hanging by a thread.

“Stop shaking,” Adrien said.

He didn’t say it harshly. He was looking at his tablet, reviewing a document his legal team had just sent over, but his hand found mine on the leather seat. He squeezed it hard.

“I’m not shaking,” I lied. “I’m vibrating with rage. It’s different.”

“Good. Rage is useful. Fear is useless.” He swiped across the screen. “My team has already issued a cease-and-desist to the publication, but the damage is done online. The narrative is out there. They’re painting you as the Mata Hari of marketing.”

“And you?” I asked, looking at his profile. “What are they painting you as?”

“A distracted CEO thinking with his libido instead of his brain,” he said dryly. “The board has called an emergency session. 9:00 AM.”

I checked my watch. 8:45 AM.

“Adrien,” I said, my voice small. “If we walk in there together, we’re confirming it.”

He finally looked up from the screen. His eyes were clear, focused, and terrifyingly calm.

“We are confirming it, Harper. We aren’t confirming the affair Marcus invented. We are confirming that we are a united front. If I walk in alone, I look guilty. If you walk in alone, you look abandoned. We walk in together.”

The car pulled up to the curb.

It was a circus.

Paparazzi—where did they even come from so fast?—were clustered near the revolving doors. Flashes went off like strobe lights.

“Ready?” Adrien asked.

I took a deep breath. I thought about the girl who had cried in the bathroom of The Rosewood just a few weeks ago. She was gone. The woman sitting in this car had survived a divorce, a merger, and a billionaire.

“Ready,” I said.

The driver opened the door.

We stepped out. The noise hit us instantly—shouts, questions, the click-click-click of shutters.

“Mr. Blackwood! Is it true?” “Harper! Did you seduce him for the promotion?”

Adrien didn’t flinch. He buttoned his suit jacket with one hand and placed the other firmly on the small of my back. He didn’t rush. He didn’t hide his face. He guided me through the gauntlet with the arrogance of a king walking through a peasant revolt.

He didn’t speak to them. He just looked at them with a disdain that quieted the closest ones.

We pushed through the glass doors and into the sanctuary of the lobby. The security guards held the press back.

The lobby was dead silent. Every receptionist, every intern, every security guard was staring.

“Eyes forward,” Adrien murmured near my ear. “Chin up.”

We walked to the elevator. I could feel the burning stares of my colleagues.

When the doors closed, enclosing us in the silver box, I sagged against the wall.

“I think I forgot how to breathe,” I wheezed.

“You did great,” Adrien said. He checked his watch. “Showtime. The Board is in the main conference room. Let’s go make some old men very uncomfortable.”

The boardroom was freezing. It smelled of lemon polish and fear.

Twelve people sat around the massive oval table. Ten men, two women. The Board of Directors. These were the people who held the keys to the kingdom.

When we walked in, the conversation died instantly.

Sterling, the Chairman of the Board—a man with white hair and a face like a dried apple—cleared his throat.

“Adrien,” Sterling said, his voice grave. “Miss Evans. Please, sit.”

We sat at the far end of the table, facing them like defendants at a tribunal.

“We have seen the reports,” Sterling began, sliding a tablet across the table. It displayed the photo of Adrien nearly punching Marcus. “Assaulting a civilian at a company gala. Allegations of an illicit affair with a subordinate. Claims that the acquisition of DataCore was motivated by… personal interests.”

He paused, looking over his spectacles.

“The stock has dropped 4% since the market opened. We need answers. And frankly, we need a resignation.”

The air left the room.

They wanted Adrien out. They were using this as an excuse to oust the founder and take control.

“No,” I said.

The word hung in the air.

Sterling blinked. Adrien looked at me, surprised.

I stood up. My knees were shaking, but my voice wasn’t.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Evans?” Sterling asked, clearly unused to being interrupted by anyone below C-suite level.

“I said no,” I repeated, my voice gaining strength. “You are operating on a narrative provided by a bitter ex-husband who is currently facing a malpractice suit. If you want the truth, ask for it. Don’t assume.”

“The truth,” one of the female board members said sharply, “is that you and the CEO are involved. Is that not correct?”

“Yes,” Adrien said. He remained seated, but his presence filled the room. “We are involved. As of last night.”

“Last night?” Sterling scoffed. “The report says—”

“The report is a lie,” Adrien cut in, his voice like a whip crack. “And here is the proof.”

Adrien pulled a folder from his briefcase and slid it down the long table.

“That folder contains three things,” Adrien said, ticking them off on his fingers. “One: The finalized divorce papers of Harper Evans and Marcus Chin, dated forty-five days ago—citing his adultery, not hers. Two: The initial acquisition proposal for DataCore, which I signed six months ago, long before I had ever met Miss Evans. And three…”

He leaned forward, a predator’s smile playing on his lips.

“…a sworn affidavit from the bartender at The Rosewood, timestamped from the night we met, confirming that Miss Evans and I were strangers when we interacted.”

I stared at him. He got an affidavit from the bartender? When? How?

“You work fast,” Sterling muttered, thumbing through the documents.

“I work efficiently,” Adrien corrected. “Unlike this Board, which seems ready to believe tabloid trash over the man who built this company from a garage into a Fortune 500 empire.”

“The optics are still bad, Adrien,” Sterling argued, though he looked less confident. “Fraternization within the chain of command is a violation of Bylaw 7.4.”

“Then change the bylaw,” Adrien said.

“Excuse me?”

“Harper Evans is the most talented strategist this company has,” Adrien said, his voice dropping to a register of absolute sincerity. “I am not firing her. And I am not resigning. If you want me to leave, you will have to force a vote. And if you force a vote, I will dump my 40% stake in Meridian on the open market within the hour. I will tank this company so hard you’ll be trading for pennies by lunch.”

The silence that followed was absolute. It was the nuclear option. He was threatening to burn his own kingdom to the ground to protect me.

“Adrien,” I whispered, horrified. “You can’t.”

He didn’t look at me. He kept his eyes on Sterling. “Try me.”

Sterling looked at the other board members. They exchanged nervous glances. They knew Adrien Blackwood. They knew he didn’t bluff.

“That won’t be necessary,” Sterling said finally, his voice tight. “If the timeline is accurate, and the relationship is consensual… we can perhaps issue a statement clarifying the timeline. But strict HR protocols must be followed. Miss Evans will report directly to the COO, not to you. And there will be a probationary period.”

“Acceptable,” Adrien said.

“And,” Sterling added, narrowing his eyes, “we expect the stock to recover by end of week. Fix the PR mess, Adrien. Or we revisit this conversation.”

“Done.”

Adrien stood up. “Gentlemen. Ladies.”

He turned to me. “Shall we?”

We walked out of the boardroom. The door clicked shut behind us.

We made it about ten feet down the hallway, around the corner, before my legs finally gave out.

I slumped against the wall, sliding down until I was crouching on the floor, head in my hands.

“Harper?” Adrien was beside me instantly, crouching down, his expensive suit straining at the knees. “Hey. Breathe.”

“You threatened to tank the company,” I whispered, looking up at him. “You threatened to destroy your life’s work. For me. We’ve been together for twelve hours.”

Adrien smiled. It wasn’t the shark smile he used in the boardroom. It was the soft, genuine smile from the bedroom.

“I can build another company,” he said, taking my hand. “I can’t find another you.”

“That is the cheesiest line I have ever heard,” I laughed, a tear leaking out.

“I’m working on my romance game. I’m new at this.” He kissed my forehead. “Now, stand up, Director Evans. We have a PR nightmare to spin.”

The next week was a blur of damage control.

We released a statement. We did a carefully curated interview with a business journal (no tabloids). We controlled the narrative.

But the real victory came on Thursday.

I was at my desk, trying to focus on the Q3 budget, when Sophia skidded into my office.

“Did you see it?” she gasped, waving her phone.

“See what? Another article calling me the Yoko Ono of tech?”

“No. Marcus.”

I grabbed her phone.

It was a press release from Marcus’s law firm.

“The partners of Sterling & Finch announce the immediate departure of Marcus Chin. The firm does not condone unethical behavior or the dissemination of false information regarding pending litigation…”

“He got fired,” I whispered.

“He got obliterated,” Sophia corrected. “Adrien’s lawyers must have sent them the proof that Marcus lied to the press. He’s radioactive, Harper. No firm in Chicago will touch him.”

I felt a strange sensation in my chest. It wasn’t joy, exactly. It was relief. The final weight was gone.

“He’s done,” I said.

“He’s done,” Sophia agreed. Then she grinned. “And you, my friend, are currently trending on Twitter as a ‘Corporate Fashion Icon’ because of that grey dress. So, I’d say you won the breakup.”

I looked out the glass wall of my office. Across the floor, through the open door of the CEO suite, I saw Adrien.

He was on a call, pacing, looking intense. As if sensing my gaze, he stopped. He looked across the sea of cubicles. He met my eyes.

He didn’t wave. He just nodded, a microscopic movement. I got you.

I nodded back. I know.

Epilogue: Six Months Later

The snow was falling softly on Chicago, turning the gritty streets into something magical.

Inside The Rosewood, however, it was warm and golden.

The maître d’ smiled broadly as we entered. “Mr. Blackwood. Ms. Evans. Your usual table?”

“Actually,” I said, slipping my coat off to reveal a deep emerald green dress—a nod to the first night. “We’d like to sit at the bar.”

Adrien looked at me, an amused glint in his eye. “The bar? Trying to pick up strangers again?”

“You never know,” I teased, sliding onto the familiar leather stool. “I have a type. Tall, brooding, emotionally unavailable but secretly a softie.”

“I am not emotionally unavailable,” Adrien protested, sitting next to me. “I just have a poker face.”

“Sure.”

The bartender—the same woman with silver streaks—placed a whiskey sour in front of me and a scotch in front of Adrien without us even ordering.

“Happy Anniversary,” she winked. “Sort of.”

“Six months since the incident,” Adrien toasted, clinking his glass against mine.

“It feels like a lifetime,” I admitted.

Life had settled. The gossip had died down, replaced by the next big scandal. I was working harder than ever, reporting to the COO, proving every day that I deserved my job. Adrien and I kept work at work.

But at home? Home was messy cooking experiments, late-night movies, and a kind of partnership I hadn’t known was possible.

“I have a question,” Adrien said suddenly.

He set his glass down. He swiveled his stool to face me. The ambient noise of the restaurant seemed to fade away, just like it had that first night.

My heart did a little flip. “Okay.”

“That night,” he began, tracing the rim of his glass. “When you walked up to me. If I had said no… if I had turned you down… what would you have done?”

I laughed. “I probably would have died of shame on the spot. Or maybe set the restaurant on fire.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

He reached into his jacket pocket.

The air in the room changed. It got thinner.

“Adrien,” I whispered. “What are you doing?”

“I’m not proposing,” he said quickly, seeing my panic. Then he grinned. “Yet. That’s for the one-year mark. I have a schedule.”

I swatted his arm. “You control freak.”

“I have something else.”

He pulled out a small, rectangular velvet box. He slid it across the bar.

I opened it.

Inside lay a key. It was an old-fashioned, heavy iron key.

“What is this?”

“It’s a key to a townhouse in Lincoln Park,” he said. “The penthouse is too cold. It’s a bachelor pad. I bought a house. A real house. With a garden for a dog, if you want one. And a kitchen big enough for you to destroy.”

I stared at the key.

“You bought a house?”

“I bought us a house,” he corrected. “Move in with me, Harper. Properly. Put your name on the deed.”

I looked up at him. I saw the grey-blue eyes that had captivated me when I was at my lowest. I saw the man who had risked his empire to defend my honor.

“Lincoln Park is expensive,” I joked, my voice trembling.

“I know a guy. He’s got connections.”

I picked up the key. It felt heavy and cool in my palm. It felt like a future.

“Yes,” I said.

He leaned in. “Yes?”

“Yes.”

He smiled, and he leaned forward, cupping my jaw just like he had that first night.

“Your ex-husband,” he murmured, his thumb brushing my cheek. “Is he watching?”

I looked around the restaurant. No Marcus. No ghosts. Just us.

“No,” I whispered.

“Too bad,” Adrien said. “He’s missing a hell of a show.”

And then he kissed me.

It wasn’t for an audience. It wasn’t for revenge. It wasn’t for the cameras.

It was just for us.

And it was perfect.

THE END.