Elaine had barely returned to her desk when her email pinged with a notification: marked PRIORITY — FROM: B. GROSVENOR.
Her pulse kicked as she opened it.
Ms. Wright,
You will join the strategy team for the Q3 investor briefing.Report to Conference Room Seven at 3:00 p.m.— B.G
She blinked. The legendary Conference Room Seven was, by popular heresay, where major company-wide presentations were born. It was a war zone of charts, revisions, caffeine, and executives who hadn't slept since last quarter, their barely concealed dark undereyes giving it all away.
Why was she being pulled into all that on her first day?
"Damn," Sofia said, peeking over the wall between their cubicles. "You got pulled into the big leagues already? Holy—"
Eleven polite coughs echoed from nearby desks, interrupting her.
Sofia lowered her voice. "Holy macaroni."
Elaine laughed. "Promotion or death sentence? What's your suggestion?"
"Depends," Sofia said. "Who else is going to be in there?"
Elaine opened the follow-up calendar invite and their eyes pored over the list on the screen.
Henry Clarke.Lila Benton.Two senior analysts.Blake Grosvenor.
Sofia whistled. "Death sentence."
"Great," Elaine responded, swallowing.
The hours leading to three o'clock moved with a strange combination of speed and sludge. Lila passed by three times, checking on her with frazzled eyes. Henry popped by once, leaning casually on her desk.
"You ready for the arena?" he asked.
"Should I be scared?"
"Absolutely," Henry said cheerfully. "But don't worry. You'll outsmart them." He winked, a gesture she knew was meant to calm her nerves, but was doing the complete opposite.
Elaine smirked. "Thanks."
Henry hesitated a second before adding, "I meant what I said earlier. About hanging out. You're cool, Elaine. And office life is easier when you have allies." He winked again, a little more suggestively this time.
She smiled softly. "Yes, sure, I'd like that."
Henry's answering grin was wide enough to signal trouble. Fun trouble.
There was movement reflected behind the glass across the office.
Blake.
He stood in his office doorway, watching the exchange.
Elaine's breath caught—not because of guilt, but because he looked…different. Tense. Still. Controlled. In the way people get only when trying not to react.
Their eyes met, and fire sparked between them.
He turned away immediately, disappearing into his office like he'd been burned.
Three o'clock arrived. Elaine stepped into the room, notes in hand, shoulders squared.
The team was already there. Henry sat beside an empty chair, while Lila scrolled through slides next to him. Senior analysts whispered about revenue projections.
And Blake stood at the head of the table, jacket off, sleeves rolled crisply to his elbows. That alone felt illegal. He looked up the moment she walked in, his expression changing.
Not dramatically—not enough for anyone else to notice—but the shift was unmistakable.
Focus. Heat. Possession. They all dripped off him simultaneously.
"Ms. Wright," he said, voice smooth as steel. "Take a seat."
She chose an empty seat beside Henry and noted Blake's jaw tightening.
The meeting began.
It consisted of a series of numbers, charts, and projections. Elaine kept pace easily, speaking up when necessary, and adding insights only when relevant.
At one point, Henry leaned in to whisper, "Good point."
Blake's eyes snapped to them instantly.
Elaine hid a smile.
As the meeting progressed, it became obvious he was testing her.
He asked her to interpret the charts that the others in the room presented. He challenged her assumptions and pressed for specifics that only someone with sharp instincts could offer on short notice.
It wasn't hazing, but it felt like an examination.
Every time she matched him, his eyes heated by a degree. Every time she surprised him, his composure cracked.
She could feel the team watching them—curious, confused, maybe even suspicious—but Blake didn't care. Or, maybe he did. His control wavered more with each passing minute.
Finally, the meeting ended. She watched people shuffle out, gathering laptops and papers.
Blake didn't move.
As she stood, gathering her notes, Henry lingered beside her.
"You were great," he murmured.
"Thank you," she responded, her eyes locked with Blake's.
Henry gave her a casual shoulder bump. "We should celebrate. Coffee? Drinks after work?"
Elaine's lips parted. She was about to answer when Blake cut in.
"Ms. Wright stays," he said sharply.
The few people who were still in the room froze.
Henry's smile faltered. "Uh—"
Blake didn't look at him.
Didn't look at anyone.
Only her.
"I need a follow-up comment from her on the projections," he said. "You're dismissed."
Henry tried to mask his annoyance with a quick shrug. "Oh. Sure. Rain check?"
"Definitely," Elaine said.
Blake's jaw flexed.
Henry left. So did everyone else. The door clicked shut, leaving just the two of them.
Silence stretched.
Blake stood at the end of the table, posture unnaturally rigid, as if containing something volatile.
Elaine set down her notes.
"You don't actually need anything from me," she said quietly.
"No," Blake said.
She took a slow step toward him. "So why did you tell Henry to leave?"
His eyes darkened."That's none of your concern."
"It is," she whispered. "Because it involves me."
He exhaled sharply—anger, desire, conflict in a single breath.
"You don't understand what you're doing."
"Maybe I do."
Another step.
Close enough now to feel the heat radiating off him.
Blake's voice lowered. "This is inappropriate."
"Then stop," she challenged.
He didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't even try to step back.
His control was unraveling thread by thread.
"You're making this…" His voice cracked the slightest bit. "Difficult."
Elaine tilted her head. "For who?"
His eyes dropped to her lips. The answer was clear.
For the man who lived by control and didn't let himself want. For the man who could not—would not—risk losing his composure.
"Ms. Wright…" His voice was barely a whisper. "If you don't leave this room in the next ten seconds, I don't trust myself to—"
A knock shattered the moment.
Blake jerked back like he'd been electrocuted.
"Come in," he barked.
An assistant poked her head in. "Sir, your father is on line one."
A flicker of something crossed his face—annoyance, dread, irritation, duty.
"I'll take it," Blake said.
The assistant left, the door clicking shut behind her.
Elaine waited, but Blake didn't look at her. Instead, he said sharply, "This conversation is over."
She stepped toward the door, pausing only for a second.
"Blake."
He flinched almost imperceptibly at the sound of his name on her lips.
She left it at that.
Leaving the room, her pulse raced, as if she'd just run a marathon.
Blake Grosvenor was slipping, and they both knew it.